


To Dust or To Gold

by captainskellington



Series: Take The World Back [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Explicit rating for sexual content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 18:26:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2398397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainskellington/pseuds/captainskellington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>The first time Grantaire saw him he was being restrained by a peacekeeper.</em>
</p><p>A Hunger Games AU based entirely in the week leading up to the games themselves. (As such, no actual death occurs.) Grantaire is a stylist, Enjolras is his tribute.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Go Down In History

**Author's Note:**

> This is unbeta'd, so please make a note of anything that doesn't seem right and I'll correct it when possible.  
> Title from Centuries by Fall Out Boy, as are the chapter headings. None of them are really related to the plot, I just thought they looked nice.

**Day 0**

 

The first time Grantaire saw him, he was being restrained by a peacekeeper.

No, not one of the Capitol guards assigned to keeping the Tributes in line. An honest to god peacekeeper all the way from the boy's District. Grantaire'd heard all about him, all the media hubbub and all the things the government didn't even want you to hear.

He'd heard about how that same peacekeeper had been on him perpetually from the moment he'd stepped offstage at the reaping, about how anyone around him was constantly at risk of being both verbally and physically assaulted otherwise.

He'd also heard the rumblings, the whispers and gossip that were kept for outdoors conversations where there was no risk of unwanted ears hearing: the Districts were rebelling. Slowly, quietly, not so much that the Capitol couldn’t cover it up with nothing more than extra peacekeepers being distributed (for "building work", really?) and keep it under wraps. He also knew that this boy, the dangerous boy with a murderous glare, was something to do with it. In a big way.

Actually, back up, that wasn't strictly true. The first time Grantaire really saw him, it was on a huge glass screen hoisted high above a pedestrian square in the middle of the city, one of the ones surrounded by boutiques and beauty parlours with large potted palm trees sprinkled with lights dotted across the pavements.

These screens usually boasted advertisements for the newest, improvedest, squeakiest beauty treatments and trendy modifications that cost an arm and a leg and any and all integrity on the part of the modified. Grantaire never so much as spared them a glance at these times. But once a year for a series of gruelling days there was a 24 hour flood of information displayed on them, the Capitol's favourite festivities.

The Hunger Games made Grantaire sick to his stomach.

The Capitol made Grantaire sick to his stomach.

He would never understand the other residents, how they could possibly be okay with children -- innocent children -- being slaughtered for sport. He never understood the parties thrown every night under these huge screens, in parks, houses all over the city; never understood the merchandise and the groupies and the babble of excitement surrounding this massacre.

The others didn't understand him, either, but he was okay with that. _"It's just how things are done." "They're being taught a lesson!" "They're not real people, they lost that right almost a century ago!"_ He used to fight it, to argue, to talk back, rile up the opposition, but all that got him was punched in the face, beaten, put under surveillance and interrogated by the authorities. He got called a sympathizer, and you know what? He's proud.

But he knew it wouldn't do any good. So every year he pasted a phony smile on his face and avoided all broadcasts and enthusiasts like the plague. The Games weren’t required viewing like in the Districts (here they were still allowed some degree of freedom, illusive though it may be as their viewing was definitely monitored) so at nights Grantaire just shut everything off and listened to music, painted, read ancient books about princes and dragons in worlds that hadn’t gone to shit.

He wasn’t happy, but he’d survived so far.

That night, with the screen, he was only there because he passed through that damned square every day on his way home from work.

Work was a little back alley tattoo studio. What little conversation was to be had there never really took a turn the subject of the Games, and if it did Grantaire and the others steered it away again quick and efficient. The other artists (Feuilly, Bahorel, Eponine) they weren’t supporters of the Hunger Games either, and a great number of their clientele were in the same boat.

They weren’t exactly the glitziest place on the circuit, but that was the point, really. It was because of this that they were able to run a support network from the shop for those who couldn’t be seen in the public eye; the latest of whom being an escaped Avox who now worked as an apprentice there. Marius came to them with her, desperate and pleading, Feuilly and Eponine took them into the office away from prying ears and she’s been a constant presence there ever since. Grantaire never asked; it wasn’t his business.

They did what they could.

It’s not like he’d forgotten that the reapings were that day, but he wasn’t exactly paying attention to the time as he left the studio. He heaved a weary sigh as he registered what lay in his path and barely managed to cross the cobbled square, battling through sickeningly brightly coloured throngs of people, just as the hour hit for the 12th and final reaping. Turning to make the exit for his street, his eye caught on the scene playing out across the screen. And for the first time in ten years, he watched the broadcast. He just couldn’t look away.

There was District 12, unchanged from the pictures featured in the last news article about the area, some two or three weeks ago. Good to know some things weren’t always bullshit. Grantaire noted the scorch marks around the square, the people standing eerily still in their best clothes, ground nothing but churned mud from the passing of so many. He also catalogued the eerie, steeled expressions on the citizens’ faces. Something very strange was happening there.

Nobody else in the party square seemed to notice. A woman in a giraffe headdress bumped into him giggling, nearly spilling a neon orange drink down his front. He turned his head from the overwhelming stench of the alcohol ( _not now_ ) and clenched his jaw against the tide of temptation that swept over him, accompanying it. The enormous speakers flanking the screen boomed out some innocuous name as he glared resolutely away from the woman. Grantaire wasn’t the praying type, but he sent up a silent word of hope for the tribute and her family anyway.

He trained his ears away from the bustle of the crowds and honed in on the screen. A slight, hard-faced girl stepped up on stage. The female tribute of District 12 trembled as she took to the stage. There was no sound from the speakers, because nobody in the square made a single noise. The eccentric District rep then stumbled over to the other name bowl.

“The male tribute of District 12--” Grantaire flinched as a group of men to his left screeched and took a selfie, missing the tribute’s first name entirely and only catching the surname. “--Combeferre.”

Almost as soon as the boy’s name was spoken a clear voice rang out across the stage; “I volunteer as tribute.” There was no reaction onscreen, nothing but stillness as a boy in blue stepped out of his row. He was in the furthest pen from the stage (because that’s what they were; penned in like animals) and nobody even turned to look at him, this martyr with flowing blonde hair. They knew. This was planned.

Meanwhile in the Capitol, the noise level had skyrocketed as soon as the boy spoke. Not because of the peculiar atmosphere, but because somebody who was actually willing to die was always welcome and _exciting_ to those featherheads that Grantaire tried his best to avoid. They didn’t even realise that this wasn’t regulation, this Combeferre person hadn’t even stepped out of the ranks… Who was this boy that commanded such control?

“Your name?” the tinny, nasally voice of the rep was barely audible over the frantic crowd.

"Enjolras."

And then the audio feed cut out, before the rep had finished presenting the tributes, replaced by the commentators' over the top gushing over the talent and potential of this year's pool. To Grantaire it was obvious that somebody was whispering, hissing in their earpieces. Cover it up, don't show any weakness. All is well.

Nobody even seemed to notice the disruption, not worth stopping the party for. Grantaire just stayed standing there, staring at the screen, and when the boy in blue looked directly into the camera it felt like he was seeing right down into his soul. That stare was a challenge, an act of defiance in a single glance.

A call to arms.

As soon as the feed cut he turned and headed home, trying not to think of what would soon be just another beautiful face among the dead. When he got there the first thing he saw was the crisp cream envelope lying neatly on his doormat. Inside his door.

So neatly, in fact, that it obviously hadn’t been posted through the letterbox; somebody had been inside his house, broken in purely to do nothing but place the envelope.

Grantaire sighed. Just the government once again exerting pressure and reminding him that he was never truly alone, hidden, or safe from them.

It all got fairly boring after a while. Grantaire was almost used to it by now.

He picked up the somehow offensively inoffensive envelope and slipped through to his bedroom, tearing it open as messily as possible and making a mental note to defile the stamped Capitol emblem  at some point.

His eyes darted across the inked text of the letter (how quaint, they must have realised his non-existence on the internalnet) and paused. Reread it. Swore and reread it again. Dropped to the bed and let the paper slip from his fingers.

"You've got to be kidding me."

 

***

 

"A _stylist?"_ Bahorel wasn't mocking. He was disgusted.  He spat the words, crumpled the letter furiously in his hand.

Grantaire nodded wearily, scrubbing his hands over his face. He was sitting in Bahorel's chair, neither of them having a booking for the next hour. Bahorel himself had been midway through sterilizing his gear when Grantaire'd entered.

Bahorel was standing behind him, but Grantaire knew without seeing him that the Celtic knot inked over his eye was writhing with aggravation and loathing.

He glanced at his hands. The cobra coiled around the base of his thumb was baring its fangs. He soothed it with his index finger, stroking the coal coloured scales until it settled down. “Yep. Panem’s aggressive passive aggressiveness. Gotta love it.”

Bahorel smoothed out the letter again, sitting on a stool opposite Grantaire. “They don’t say you _have_ to go.”

“Bahorel, you know a ‘request’ from the office of Felix is a marching order. Any refusal would be seen as defiance, I can’t afford that. _We_ can’t afford that if it brings them snooping around.”

Bahorel’s eyes flickered to the door. Just outside, Cosette was manning the front in case anybody came in before schedule in hopes of an early booking. At first glance you couldn’t tell she was an Avox, especially since they’d gotten her back up to health, but if anyone tried to speak to her for any length of time it became increasingly obvious that she was incapable of replying verbally.

When he looked back, Grantaire just nodded. “They hassle me because I didn’t have the sense to keep my mouth shut as a kid, they know I’m defiant. I don’t want to give them any excuse to find out about you guys.”

Bahorel sighed, defeated. “When do you have to go?”

“Tonight,” Grantaire rolled his head, listening to his neck crack satisfyingly. “The tributes get in early tomorrow morning, I guess I’m getting briefed tonight… Or something.”

“Well, me, Ep and Feuilly can cover you no problem, don’t worry about that. You know nobody wants tattooed somewhere they can’t watch all the live action as it’s going down, so it’s not exactly going to be busy.” Bahorel handed him back his letter and he crumpled it into his fist.

They get away without watching the coverage in the studio because they can claim the license is too costly for a small business, and Grantaire doesn’t see any point in pretending at home when they already know he’s an objector and have him under watch. But he knows for a fact that Bahorel and Feuilly just have the TV on, covered and muted for the entirety of the Games.

Grantaire wondered sometimes whether it still counted as paranoia if the government are genuinely monitoring everything you watch.

“Yeah…” Grantaire took a deep breath. “Keep your heads down, yeah?” He pushed himself off the chair and started to make his way to the door.

“Will do. Man, this is just weird. There are people everywhere that would sell their soul for a stylist position-- or _anything_ that close to the Games, really. Why you?”

“They’re sick bastards with a disgusting sense of humour,” Grantaire shot him a lifeless grin that emphasised the hours of sleep he’d been deprived of with the coming of the letter. “That, and maybe they want me where they can keep an eye on me now that the threat of rebellion is real.”

Bahorel stopped him then with a hand on his shoulder, looking genuinely concerned. “You keep your head down too, Grantaire. You may be the rawest designer this side of the Capitol, but that won’t stop them from doing whatever the hell they want with you.”

Grantaire hugged him fiercely. “My District are gonna get so many sponsors,” he joked bitterly, the words muffled against Bahorel’s shoulder.

“Oh yeah, who are you even with?”

“I have no idea.”

 

***

 

He should have known. He should have fucking known, this would be his luck.

He took the underground bullet to the training building, dead in the centre of the city, in the late afternoon. It was two hours of sitting being scrutinised by every single passerby and being hyper-aware that he stuck out like a sore thumb. Grantaire didn’t look like a Capitol citizen.

He had no cosmetic modifications, never wore trends, avoided bright colours, wasn’t nauseatingly cheerful and enthusiastic 24/7.  He’d been mistaken for an Avox more than once for his generally sullen nature and reluctance to communicate with literally everyone.

The only thing that marked him out as part of the city was his collection of pulsing, living tattoos. They were his one connection with the Capitol’s frivolous cosmetic and technological advances, his one indulgence. And even then, they were largely unnoticeable when he spent most of his time dressed in jeans and long sleeved shirts. The cobra on his left hand was a personal favourite, and even it just looked like a ring from afar… Until it slithered to coil around different fingers or bared its fangs.

Hades, he called it. Like all of the magic tattoos, it reacted according to his emotions and if he focussed on soothing it enough, he would find himself calming down too. As such, he spent most of the bullet ride gently comforting Hades and playing with it, watching it lazily wind its way around his hand until it was time to disembark.

As he did so, a nagging suspicion of his was confirmed. One of the men who'd been looking at him strangely throughout the journey rose to get off at the same stop and surreptitiously muttered something into his jacket collar.

Why was he under surveillance?

He was immediately met by a guard (armed, Grantaire noted with interest) and escorted to what was essentially a glorified hotel lobby. He was then passed an elevator key and a file by a bored yet somehow vicious attendant and “advised” to get some sleep and be in the designated dressing room by noon. He was told he would be sharing the floor with both the tributes, their mentors and their rep and then promptly ignored, which he took as a dismissal.

The guard didn't take him to the elevators on the opposite side of the lobby, much to Grantaire's confusion. Instead he was marched down a long side corridor and pushed through a door into a small room. There, another guard took his bag from him and rummaged through its contents while Grantaire was pushed onto a low table by some form of medic, judging by the white coat and face mask.

He knew better than to protest, he'd stopped making that mistake years ago. Most of his injuries had healed, but the memories never got any less vivid.

His blood was taken with a wince (tattooing needles and hypodermic syringes were two very different things) and the medic prodded and quizzed him and shone lights in his eyes and inserted various instruments into his mouth and ears until he was feeling thoroughly uncomfortable. Then the test results came through with a beep and he was given the all clear by both the medic and the guard; he hugged his bag tightly to his chest when it was returned to him, blinking away the aftereffects of the medic's examination as he was shepherded back through the lobby.

It wasn’t until he got into the elevator that he noticed the tiny numbers punched into his floor key.

He slipped the key into the slot and fumbled with the file, nearly dropping it in his haste to get the damn thing open, and when he finally managed it, there he was.

The male tribute from District 12 was staring defiantly at him from the page, chin tilted upwards and eyes searing.

Objectively speaking, Grantaire should have been thrilled; the boy was gorgeous: 17 years old, tall and slim and strong with luxurious golden hair and hypnotic eyes. Stunning and with such an evidently powerful personality, he seemed more like a Career than somebody from an outlying district and as such would be a dream to design for. The range of colours he would look striking in and his build and stance would be statement enough on their own. And yet…

Something told him that the avenging angel of District 12 and the cowering back alley tattoo artist of the Capitol’s lowest class was not exactly going to make a winning combination.

The elevator doors slid open with a quiet whoosh.

Grantaire really regretted giving up drinking, sometimes.

 

**Day 1**

 

So, yeah. The first time Grantaire saw Enjolras in real life, he was being restrained by a peacekeeper.

Spitting out obscenities and hurling accusations of injustice at any and every person who looked like obvious beneficiaries of the Capitol’s disgusting wealth, he wasn’t the collected, stern character he presented on television. He was passionate and wild, his eyes burning with the same determined fire that was evident even in still photographs.

There was something about all of this that made it even more painfully obvious to Grantaire that these were children going off to be killed.

He was being manhandled down a hallway, midway through an impassioned rant about unfair distribution of wealth aimed at yet another disinterested looking guard (of which Grantaire had seen hundreds since his arrival the previous night) when he spotted Grantaire. He looked taken aback and actually paused in his tirade for a moment, looking Grantaire up and down in disbelief before his expression shut down into one of neutral disdain.

The peacekeeper took this opportunity to shove Enjolras through the door of the dressing room beside which Grantaire was lurking. He assumed his assigned beauticians, Trillian and Tyrion, would take care of him for now and maybe get some of their incessant chatter out of their system before he came back into the room. They seemed like lovely people, don’t get him wrong; they were just the kind of people who actually enjoyed the Games and wittered on endlessly about betting odds and events from previous years.

They were also morning people, and Grantaire had barely managed any sleep at all in the unnervingly elaborate bedroom he was assigned.

Hence Grantaire vacating the room.

“Tell a guard when you’re done with him here and he’ll be sent an escort,” the peacekeeper told him gruffly, then left. The guy sounded exhausted, Enjolras must have been a handful. Grantaire almost would have felt sorry for the guy if he hadn’t stood for everything he hated.

He decided to go see if he could find breakfast while the twins showered down Enjolras, which he really didn’t need to be there for. He waited until the peacekeeper disappeared from sight then headed down the hallway after him, closely followed by his own personal (heavily armed, incredibly menacing) shadow of a guard.

He wasn’t kidding when he said to Bahorel about being considered a threat. The Capitol didn’t take internal riots lightly.

By the time he returned the twins were done, one of them just finishing off Enjolras’ nails and the other filing their own out of boredom. As suspected, the two of them were still talking in an incredibly eerie fashion in which they were two halves of a conversation, but swapped halves mid-sentence, finishing each other’s words and sentences without breaking stride.

A presence at his shoulder alerted him to the fact that the guard was still tailing him. Grantaire rolled his eyes. “You going to be following me into the bathroom too, man?” The guard backed out without a word to take up his place beside the door.

When Grantaire turned back the twins were both on their feet and the three of them were watching him closely. He avoided Enjolras’ eyes, not wanting to see the way he was being looked at by the tribute.

“We are done here,” said one twin, in the peculiar accent particular to the highest of the lower classes that wanted to be as high up the social food chain as was physically possible.

“We will be back for makeup before the ceremony,” said the other in their identical accent.

“Unless there is something else you need us for?” they said in unison.

Grantaire shook his head and they took their leave, off to gamble in the cafeteria if he knew them at all.

A silence descended on the room as the tribute and the stylist were left on their own. Sensing he was being watched, Grantaire finally returned Enjolras’ gaze, giving him an appraising look. He was wearing nothing but clean white shorts, obviously new, and his skin was a healthy, freshly-scrubbed pink, marred here and there by various old scars and burns. His hair was literally glowing in the harsh light of the dressing room like some ridiculous halo, his body lean but toned in the way of hunters and scavengers. Survivors.

Maybe this kid had a chance after all.

“When you’re quite finished.” The voice startled Grantaire out of his reverie. It was deeper, more powerful than he’d been expecting, rich and commanding. Five years his junior, and the kid already sounded a seasoned adult. Maybe that’s what harsh district life did to you. Maybe that was just him.

Grantaire looked him in the eye, carefully collecting himself to keep his gaze level. He wasn’t going to let on how much this experience was shaking him. In the back of his mind he was already running through colour schemes and clothing cuts, but the rest of him was desperately trying to disregard the fact that this beautiful boy was a tribute, this was a child, a child who was _staging a revolution,_ if you believed the alley rumours.

He was a little overwhelmed.

“They took your measurements?” Thankfully, his voice betrayed no emotion. Enjolras nodded to a clipboard over on a table. Grantaire wouldn’t need them for the next hour at least, but headed over to it for something to do.

“You’re not like them,” Enjolras said: a simple statement of fact, not a question. He was still watching him warily when Grantaire glanced up from the clipboard. Them. The twins? The guards? The rest of the Capitol?

“I’m not,” Grantaire replied slowly. “No.”

“Why not?” Enjolras’ expression was guarded.

Grantaire narrowed his eyes. “You’re the one who mentioned it. Shouldn’t you be telling me that?”

Enjolras just looked at him. Grantaire sighed and reluctantly pulled up a chair facing Enjolras, a few feet away. He was excruciatingly aware that every word they spoke was being monitored. There were probably cameras in here too, somewhere.

“I’m not exactly a fan of all this…” he trailed off, waving a hand in a vague gesture. Enjolras’ eye caught for a moment on Hades, its tail flickering in agitation, then darted back to stare Grantaire down again.

“This?” Enjolras repeated with a sneer. “This what? This mindless exertion of power over the powerless? This slaughter of the innocent? Or this entire situation of one city being enthroned on the skeletons of the rest of the nation?”

_Black would drain all of the colour out of him. He’d look dead before the Games even began. Nobody would sponsor a dead man._

“All of the above. Look, I want to be here about as much as you do-” Grantaire was interrupted by a harsh laugh. The expression on Enjolras’ face was unkind.

“Oh, I’m sure! How much pay does one receive for being a stylist in a city so obsessed with style, I wonder? For the Hunger Games, no less! Tell me; were you disappointed when you discovered you’d pulled the short straw? The runt of the litter? District 12: the miners. Pits of darkness and death. Not much fun to play with, are we?”

_Yellow isn’t bold enough. Wouldn’t stand out. He needs something stronger. Something powerful._

This child was a viper, venomous and striking to kill. Hades coiled protectively around his middle finger, ready to strike back.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire said coldly, but it came out hollow. “If we are to get anywhere in the next few hours, you are not going to treat me with such little respect.” Even as he spoke he was writing on the scrap paper reserved for note taking. He unceremoniously shoved it into Enjolras’ face for him to read. “I’ve made amendments to the measurements. Check them.”

Enjolras’ eyes widened as he took in the scrawl, and he even had the decency to release a momentary flash of guilt into his expression. What he’d written was this.

**cant talk, walls have ears. not here by choice. punishment for past protestation. protecting friends.**

“That looks fine,” Enjolras muttered warily, shooting him a not-quite apologetic look. Grantaire pretended his hands weren’t shaking as he surreptitiously erased the note.

They sat in silence for some minutes, Enjolras uneasily rubbing at a bruise on his inner arm (he'd obviously had a visit to the medic, too) and Grantaire sketching out some vague costume ideas (focusing on the night’s Entry Parade) to share with the other stylist he’d met briefly just before coming here; his name was Jehan and he seemed every bit as uncomfortable as he was to be in this situation.

Then Enjolras jumped.

“Your tattoo,” he said, voice strangled. “It-- did it just move?!” His eyes were transfixed on Grantaire’s hand and he flexed it awkwardly.

“Ah, yeah, that’s just Hades. Ignore it, it doesn’t know how to behave itself,” Grantaire glanced fondly down at the ink doing figure of eight maneuvers on the back of his hand. He looked back up at Enjolras. “Is that the first tattoo mod you’ve seen?” He asked, curious.

Enjolras nodded, his eyes darting across Grantaire’s skin. He was noticing the others now: the vines that grew and shrunk on Grantaire’s neck just above his shirt collar, the moon on his right wrist that cycled through its phases at different speeds depending on his heart rate, the insect wings peeking out of his unbuttoned collar that fluttered with each breath.

“They’re incredible,” he breathed, then pulled back again as if stung to have even admitted that something in the Capitol could be a thing of beauty.

“Thank you,” Grantaire chuckled despite himself. “They’re the best thing about this city,” he put peculiar emphasis on ‘best’, hoping Enjolras would take that to mean that they were the only good thing about this city. Judging by the look he got, he did.

“Tell me about them,” Enjolras said, back to watching Hades coil up around Grantaire’s little finger. He leaned forward for a better look as Grantaire launched into a brief summary of how the electro-chemical/-biological fusion created the latticework that enabled moving tattoos to play out across the designated patch of skin. He went back to sketching as he spoke, being sure to swap the pen to his right hand so Enjolras could continue watching Hades.

“So you’re a tattooist,” Enjolras concluded distractedly. He raised a tentative hand. “Can I-?”

Grantaire laughed. “Go ahead, it won’t bite. Although that would be _really_ cool.”

Enjolras shot him a reproachful look and hesitantly tapped Hades’ tail. The snake shivered and rolled over; Grantaire hadn’t been expecting _that_ thrill of sensation, thank you very much. He held his breath while Enjolras traced the path of the snake, over his knuckles and along his fingers and finally to its resting place coiled up at the base of his thumb to recharge.

Enjolras pulled his hand away with a look of childish glee which was quickly wiped away to become the carefully calculated mask he always wore. “Incredible,” he said again.

“Right,” the moon on his wrist phased from new to full distressingly quickly. “So now you know what I do, it’s only fair you tell me more about you. About 12.”

So Enjolras talked. At times Grantaire had to stop drawing to watch him speak, because half of what he said was told through movement rather than speech. The same fire from before lit inside of him and he was once again the same formidable man who’d stepped onto that stage in front of millions. He spoke of the miners, and of the explosions, and through them Grantaire learned of his losses, dredged up hints of rebellion and wisps of revolution; reading between it all he saw blueprints for overthrowing the power crazed and distributing justice once and for all.

“Red,” Grantaire said suddenly, entranced.

Enjolras blinked, surprised at being cut off mid-sentence. “Sorry?”

“How do you feel about fire?” Grantaire asked absentmindedly, pencil racing across the page.

Enjolras’ brows furrowed. “In general?”

“Excellent,” Grantaire wasn’t hearing a thing now. “I think I have what I need, you can… Go back to your room and nap, you’re going to need it for tonight. I can tell you didn’t get a second of sleep on that train.”

He indicated a neatly folded pile of clothes on the desk and Enjolras changed into them, still curiously glancing over from time to time. Grantaire then snapped out of his reverie and went to the door to summon a guard to escort him, selecting several strands of material from the store as he went.

“Hold up,” he stopped Enjolras by the door and held the strands up to Enjolras’ face, discarding two carelessly without explanation before speaking again. His eyes focused then on the beautiful boy’s face, voice low, urgent and almost undetectable. “Right. About that whole yelling and spitting obscenities at every person who comes within ten feet of you thing,” Enjolras’ face hardened but he let him continue. “You need to reel that in. They won’t hurt you before the Games because you’re in the public eye -- you’re their pet now, I hope you realise -- because that’s awful for publicity and would gain them no popularity. But what they won’t refrain from is paying your friends and family a visit if they think it’ll make you behave. You got that?”

Enjolras paled significantly. “Shit,” was all he said.

Grantaire nodded. “Exactly. Better off keeping the stony face you had through your reaping, that’ll unsettle people more than pitching a fit will, plus it doesn’t give anybody an excuse to go for you.”

For some reason Grantaire couldn’t understand, Enjolras’ eye darted to the half-hidden piece on his collar again. “That wing… It’s a cecropia moth, isn’t it?”

Grantaire nodded once more, bewildered, wondering if Enjolras had been listening to a single word he said.

“My friend, Combeferre--” Enjolras started, then cut himself off, casting a mistrustful gaze about the room. Grantaire nodded to show that he understood; don’t give anything away they could use against you. The walls have ears.

“I’m sorry, by the way,” Enjolras said next, quite unexpectedly. Grantaire glanced at him sharply. He was looking at him beseechingly, and Grantaire realised he was meaning for his outburst earlier, for assuming things about Grantaire when he didn’t know the half of it.

“Me too,” Grantaire replied, his heart heavy. They both knew what he was apologising for, although it wasn’t his fault. The Games loomed over them like the shadow of a mountain, just waiting to crush everything in their path.

17 was too young to die.

 

***

 

Jehan was every bit as enthusiastic about his idea as he was, subversive undertones and all. Hours flew by, and once they had finalized the details and balanced out the colours between the skintones of the two tributes (a gorgeous contrast with Enjolras’ marble complexion and Helene’s striking ivory skin) they were ready. They would make a stunning pair, Grantaire was sure of it.

They handed the idea over to Trillian, Tyrion, Trixylyl and Stephanie (which Grantaire was finding incredibly difficult to take in because A: identical _quadruplets_ and B: Stephanie?) who scurried off to have the costumes made before the fitting later that evening, and then they were free. After a moment’s thought, the two decided to head back up to their floor and find something else to eat.

On the way Grantaire discovered that Jehan was also acquainted with Bahorel (which he found strange, but brushed off) and then he uneasily admitted that he too despised these Games (which was too strange a coincidence to let go). Grantaire wasn't going to push it, but he filed away the information with interest and couldn't help but wonder just what he'd done to deserve this.

“I think they transferred me here to get me attached to the tributes then watch them be slaughtered mercilessly,” Jehan whispered, eyes trained on the floor. “I am no stranger to death, but there’s something about this that just…” He shook his head, unable to continue. Grantaire thought of the brilliant boy (young man, really) he’d spent most of his day with and found he entirely understood. It’s one thing to see a detached photo of somebody on TV and hear of their death in passing, but to meet them and speak with them and be with them as _people…_ It didn’t bear thinking about what was to happen next.

The elevator doors opened and they stepped out without speaking.

Enjolras was on the couch, eyeing a nearby guard warily and asking their mentor (Valjean, Grantaire’s brain supplied helpfully) whether any of the other tributes got this level of attention.

“They’re all here for me, actually. Gosh darn it, and I just lost my favourite autographing pen, too,” Grantaire said in a breezy manner on his way to the kitchen, attempting to dissipate some of the tension in the room. He heard Enjolras snort and somebody (Helene?) muffled laughter behind their hand. The guards glared at him humorlessly as always, except for one who blushed slightly when he blew a kiss at them. _Weak._

Jehan, who had since joined him in the kitchen, let out a sudden burst of laughter of his own. “Really? Do we really, _seriously_ not have knives? You have got to be kidding me right now.”

Enjolras sprang up with a grin and stalked over. “Seriously?” Jehan showed him the otherwise well-stocked cutlery drawer with glee. “So who here has a reputation with knives? Or is that just a general precaution?”

Everybody laughed at this except for Valjean, who went curiously pale. Noticing this, Grantaire changed the subject swiftly.

“How are we supposed to eat dinner? Also, when is that and how much will there be?”

At which point their early dinner arrived in preparation for the ceremony later tonight, to give them enough time to let the food settle down before the nerves set in and they were no longer able to eat because of them.  

It came set with its own knives.

 _Plastic_ knives.

They all take one look at it and promptly burst into hysterics.

 

***

 

“Wow,” was all Enjolras could say when Grantaire held out the costume, draped over one arm and held up by the other.

“Impressive?” Grantaire grinned, echoing his sentiment from earlier. Enjolras just nodded, running the material through his fingers, ducking his head to inspect it further. He raised his head to look at Grantaire with awe in his eyes.

“How do you do that?”

Grantaire shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable. “It wasn’t all me, Jehan’s the professional here.” He slid it off its hanger, taking a moment to appreciate the craftsmanship displayed in putting this together in only a matter of hours. “Strip,” he ordered.

Enjolras raised his eyebrows. “Buy me a drink first,” he joked halfheartedly, unbuttoning the soft shirt he’d been supplied in his ridiculously sized wardrobe. (Grantaire only knew because he’d spent a good five minutes complaining about it during dinner.)

“You’re underage,” Grantaire supplied distractedly, dimming the lights and tentatively doing a trial run on the internal current of the costume, allowing a pleased grin when a warm flickering glow lit up the room. He looked up when he realised Enjolras was staring at him, face calculating, a strange light passing through his eyes. The light dancing off of his face made him look truly breathtaking, Grantaire suddenly couldn’t wait to see how it looked in the dusk of the arena, despite his loathing for the whole ceremony.

“What?” he asked. Hades circled around his wrist.

“You say that like… No, never mind.” Enjolras shook his head. His hands were hooked in his waistband, about to peel off his jeans. Grantaire studiously averted his eyes, grin slipping. He turned his back to go turn the lights back up as Enjolras stepped into the tight fit black jeans of the costume. They glinted like coal dust in the right light.

Grantaire found that he didn’t really want him to finish his sentence. He busied himself with straightening out the top half of the costume, tossing Enjolras a plain black sleeveless undershirt. “Put this on.”

He didn’t think about the pang of regret he felt when he covered up all that bare skin. “Arms,” he commanded, lifting the flame covered fabric above Enjolras’ head.

“I can dress myself,” Enjolras’ voice was muffled through the material.

“Your mother must be so proud,” Grantaire deadpanned, tugging the garment into place. It was more of a jacket than a shirt; cinched in at the waist, the style smacked of a renaissance military uniform, rows of delicate, decorative golden buttons lined up the middle. It came down to mid-thigh on the front and had tails a little longer on the back, and the sleeves were tight-fitting and cropped in such a way that they stopped short at the inside of his wrist while trailing over the backs of his hands. Barely noticeable with the power off was a thin veil-like material running in a fringe of sorts from the shoulders to the wrists. It was beautiful, even if he did say so himself.

Grantaire smoothed down the front and tweaked creases out of the sleeves, increasingly aware of Enjolras’ intense gaze tracking his every move. He stepped back after a moment to survey his handiwork and promptly forgot how to breathe.

Enjolras was heart wrenchingly beautiful.

“What? What is it?” Enjolras frowned, looking down at himself. Grantaire composed himself quickly and nudged him towards the mirror.

“Want to see what it does?” Grantaire said in lieu of answer, reluctantly moving away to dim the lights again. He returned to his side, Enjolras watching him curiously every step of the way. There was definitely a remote control for the settings, but Grantaire had no idea where he’d left it so he had no choice but to use the manual switch.

“Sorry,” he muttered, running his hand lightly up the sides of the jacket to try and find the device-- _there._ He felt more than heard Enjolras’ sharp intake of breath. He straightened up to find his face was mere centimetres from Enjolras’, his eyes flickering down to Grantaire’s mouth-- _no, don’t do this_.

He couldn’t do anything but press the switch. Enjolras’ eyes stayed trained on him as a warm light enveloped them. Grantaire cleared his throat unsteadily. “Look,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

Enjolras reluctantly turned his head, tearing his eyes away to face the mirror. He gasped and took a step back as he saw the controlled, silent tongues of flame licking out from his jacket and surrounding him with an ethereal glow.

He raised one arm and peered closely at his sleeve. “Are those…” his brow furrowed as he looked closer. “Feathers?”

Grantaire simply repositioned his hand to hover over another discreet switch. “Arms,” he said again and Enjolras complied, lifting them wide as though expecting an embrace. He flicked the switch and watched as Enjolras’ jaw dropped.

“Wings,” he breathed as the flickering appendages roared into life. His face snapped to Grantaire’s, arms still raised. “Firebird?” his gaze burned hotter than the synthetic flames.

“Phoenix,” Grantaire confirmed. “Risen from the ashes.” _A symbol of hope for the desperate,_ he didn't add.

Enjolras _understood._ He turned and lowered his arms, taking a step closer to the stylist and resting a hand on his shoulder. “Grantaire,” he began, voice strained. All Grantaire could think, bizarrely, was that it was unfair how tall this boy was before the door was flung open.

Grantaire took a swift step backwards before the light could reach them. Enjolras seemed as though he still had something to say, shooting him a frustrated look as Helene danced into the room, her costume aflame also.

“How _cool_ is this?” she cried, spreading her arms out and spinning around. Enjolras gathered himself and grinned at her. Jehan and two of the quadruplets followed them into the room, one of them switching the lights back onto full. Jehan disabled the flame (“Don’t want it to burn out before the ceremony, right?”) with the remote control that Grantaire had apparently left with him.

“Right, we haven’t long now,” said a quadruplet. “Makeup and hair and then we need to get you on your chariots.”

Grantaire took a backseat with Jehan for this stage, the stylists already having outlined the detail for makeup and hair along with the costume design (flame designs arcing from eye to eyebrow, with small beads of warm colours threaded through their hair to catch the light). Besides occasionally offering suggestions and opinions prompted by a quadruplet, the pair sat in silence together, simply watching.

Grantaire found himself absorbed in Helene's sheer enthusiasm for the whole costume, that childlike glee for sparkles and glamour that never got satisfied in the outlying Districts. He smiled. Frowned. Remembered where he was and suddenly felt sick to his stomach.

How old was she? 13? 14? Too young, far too young. And here they were, dressing her to be paraded in front of her captors, leading her to the slaughter on a jeweled leash.

This little girl was garbed in the same costume as the man by her side, a costume that was supposed to fuel the rebellious spark of the oppressed, enrage and undermine the men in power. And all she knew was that it was pretty.

Grantaire lurched to his feet and staggered out the door before he could disturb the others. Jehan and Enjolras watched him go with concern but said nothing.

He signaled for his guard to direct him to the nearest washroom and promptly collapsed in one of the unnecessarily luxurious stalls, upending the contents of his stomach into the toilet.

Jehan was right, he had to be. This is why they'd pulled them in, people who couldn't stand the Games and weren't afraid to show it; they intended to completely and utterly crush their spirits.

Grantaire sank to the floor, tucking his knees up to his chest.

It had only been one day and it was already working.

 

 


	2. Remember Me

 

**Day 2**

 

Their costumes were, of course, a roaring success.

Grantaire had retired to watch the live footage from his room, claiming to have a stomach ache and leaving Jehan to operate the controls for the costumes on his own.

A pang of emotion shot through him every time Enjolras and Helene were featured on the screen. Pain, awe, sadness; a mixture of all three and more. And they were arguably the most frequently shown tributes; the costumes went down famously with the camera operators and commentators, and from afar Enjolras' long, flowing blond hair caught the light and almost looked ablaze, like it was part of the costume.

Again, Grantaire waited until the last shot of Enjolras faded from the screen before he went to bed, heart heavy and feeling more exhausted than half a day's work could possibly warrant.

The next day, Grantaire and Jehan were informed by Valjean that they were to split the duties of District rep between them. Something had come up and the other man had had to leave, but thankfully he'd left shortly _after_ collecting a great deal of support from multiple sponsors the previous evening.

"That means you'll both have to be present throughout training, I'm afraid."

Valjean spoke sympathetically. Grantaire tried to recall any information about how the man had won his Games. He could vaguely recall a reluctance to kill and something about only winning because the other remaining tribute took his own life, but Grantaire couldn't be sure of it. He didn't think it particularly polite to ask, either.

At any rate, he was a kind man who walked with a limp and seemed to bear the weight of the world on his shoulders. Hell, maybe that was just the effect participating in the Games had on you. It sunk Grantaire's heart like a stone to try and imagine what Enjolras or Helene would be like on the other side of the contest.

"How can we help?" Grantaire asked, resigned to his fate. He'd known they wouldn't allow him to simply design his costumes and leave. Between him and Jehan the costumes for the final interview would take only a matter of hours to design and finalise.

"Training and tactical advice, drumming up sponsors, coaching for the interviews... Especially Enjolras, he's going to be a nightmare," Valjean added without a hint of exaggeration.

As if on cue Enjolras strode out of his room, dressed and ready for the first day of training. "They've made my life vastly unpleasant for the past 17 years, I think it's only fair I return the favour."

Jehan turned to Grantaire. “I call dibs on Helene.”

Grantaire groaned. Enjolras grinned at him.

Just below Grantaire’s index finger, Hades rolled over again.

 _Six days,_ he thought. _First one’s over already. Three dedicated to training, one preparing for interviews, and then the next day they’re taken to the arena. I can do this. I can._

_I can’t._

He was distracted from thinking about it more when a message flashed up on a screen installed into the sleek surface of the table in front of him. **Call for GRANTAIRE, caller: Martyr Modifications.**

He excused himself and slipped through to his room, picking up the receiver from the unit beside his bed. “Bahorel?”

“The one and only. How’s life in the centre of all insanity going for you?”

Grantaire winced, hoping he wouldn’t say too much; the chance of there not being a bug in the device was slim to none, and after all this he really didn’t want Bahorel to say anything he’d regret. “Well, it’s going,” he replied carefully. “They’re having us take the place of the District rep, man. I won’t be home any time soon.”

Bahorel whistled lowly through his teeth. “I had a feeling you wouldn’t. I guess you had to stay behind for the big interview anyway. Oh, and I caught part of the ceremony last night. Those costumes were incredible, your boy looked amazing. Sometimes I think you’re wasted on tattooing.”

Grantaire laughed bitterly, ignoring the thrill that shot through him at ‘your boy’. “Yeah, well I know where I’d rather be. I’ll leave the designing to Jehan, thanks,” he paused for a moment. “Jean Prouvaire; he says he knows you?”

There was an odd silence on the other end of the line, the kind that came with the inexplicable knowledge that the face of the person you were speaking to was running through an entire catalogue of emotions in quick succession. “I do,” he said at last, and his voice was slow and contemplative. “It’s a small world.”

Grantaire didn’t wait for him to elaborate; Bahorel could tell him anything, he knew that, but not over a wired telephone. “Have I missed much?”

Bahorel snorted and with that ungainly noise the strange tension shattered. “In the, what, 30 hours you’ve been away? Literally nothing. Marius is still dancing around… That girl of his,” Here Grantaire bristled at the near slip-up. They couldn’t let the officials hear Cosette’s name, for all their sakes. “Which is as insufferably irritating yet undeniably cute as ever -- tell him I said that and you _will_ die, Grantaire -- and, oh, I had to install a lattice on some guy’s ribcage. I told him he’d be better waiting until you got back, but he was insistent.”

Grantaire chuckled, watching Hades wind around his fingers and seeing a picture of Bahorel shuddering clear in his mind, sitting in his studio and staring into the distance as they spoke. Bahorel hated the lattices, but they were Grantaire’s speciality. He couldn’t bring himself to feel anything but love for them when he thought about how close to magic it felt to see his own creations spring to life across the designated area.

His fingers twitched and curled tighter around the receiver. He sighed. He’d have to find something to do with his hands today that wasn’t costume design, it was the wrong kind of work. There was a knock on his door and Grantaire turned to see Helene leaning against the doorframe with a smile. She grinned and waved when she saw him looking, then pointed in an exaggerated fashion in the direction of the elevator.

Grantaire bit back another sigh and nodded at her, mouthing ‘one minute’ before turning his back again.

“Right, duty calls. I need to get going,” he said.

On the other end of the line Bahorel made a clicking sound with his tongue. “Off you trot then, kid,” he replied, then after a moment added in a more sincere tone: “Keep yourself safe. And tell Jehan… Tell him it’s good to hear from him.”

Grantaire frowned. Strange way to word a message, he thought, but he let it slide. He’d find out eventually. “Will do,” he said, and hung up.

“Come on,” Helene was at his side before he could even replace the receiver, tugging at his sleeve and all but dragging her out the door. Her eagerness, had it been under any other circumstances, would have been charming. “I don’t want to be the last one holding a weapon.”

Grantaire didn’t reply. Instead, he watched suspiciously as they neared the three standing close by the elevator. Valjean saw them approaching first and cleared his throat, clearly a signal of some kind as Jehan and Enjolras immediately straightened up and stopped muttering to each other. He pretended he didn’t notice Jehan slipping something into Valjean’s pocket.

Where were the guards?

“Ready to go?” Jehan said with a forced brightness. Grantaire nodded.

He was really starting to get the feeling that he was missing out on something.

Something big.

 

***

 

The way training worked was this: for most of the morning leading into the afternoon, all of the tributes were piled into the training halls for supervised practice on various stations, at times with the guidance of tutors; then afterwards until dinner time they were granted use of various smaller, more private gymnasiums and tuition rooms to continue training with their mentors and district reps, if they so chose.

As it happened Enjolras _did_ so choose. Grantaire'd kept an eye on him from their viewing area as he spent the morning brushing up on hand to hand combat. As such Enjolras was reluctant to interrupt his flow, and so decided the rest of his time would be best spent sparring. And as Grantaire was the only one on their team who was both able-bodied and experienced in some form of fighting, he was the one sparring with him.

(That did come as some relief, actually. He was wary of mentoring Helene simply because of the fact that he didn’t know how to deal with children; lovely as she was, he was quite content to let Jehan and Valjean spend most of their time with her. Even if that did mean Grantaire was stuck with Enjolras.)

(. _..Especially_ if that meant Grantaire was stuck with Enjolras.)

Enjolras was surprisingly good, certainly better than he expected from District 12. He was no novice, to say the very least. But Grantaire had Capitol quality training under his belt, albeit a little rusty after a few years’ disuse. He’d stopped showing up to underground boxing matches around the time he stopped gleaning joy from getting beaten up by the authorities; there’s only so much bruising a man can take.

Be that as it may he was more than enough of a match for Enjolras, who he toppled to the ground for the fourth consecutive time in the space of ten minutes with relative ease. He just wasn’t built for combat with his tall, skinny frame and poor centre of gravity. The first couple of hours he’d been able to weave and dodge most of Grantaire’s attacks and get some minor blows in, but he’d grown tired and the day’s work was beginning to wear him down.

Enjolras made a frustrated noise, lashing out in a last ditch bid for freedom. Grantaire moved out of the way at a leisurely pace, frowning down at the boy.

“What weapons training do you have?” he asked, watching Enjolras scramble to his feet and sway unsteadily for a moment before turning his body and taking up another fighting stance.

“What does it matter? I’m not done here yet,” Enjolras replied defiantly. Grantaire resisted the urge to roll his eyes; he had the strongest feeling that if he so much as tapped him on the forehead he’d crumble again.

Instead he sighed. “Yes, you are. I can flip you onto your back and wind you again if that’s what it takes to make you stop, but you’re finished either way.”

After a moment of thought Enjolras relaxed, glaring at Grantaire more out of sheer stubbornness than actual willingness to continue.

“Knives. I have a decent throwing arm, but besides that…” Enjolras’ shoulders slumped and he continued in a quieter voice. “I fight with words. I mean, look at me, I wouldn’t win in a fist fight against a _child,_ much less a bloodthirsty career. But seeing as I can’t actually talk anybody to death I figured I might as well try learning something that would make me a little harder to kill.”

Grantaire gave him an appraising look. The exhaustion must have been getting to him more than he’d thought, if he was being this open.

“Right,” he said slowly, gathering his thoughts and trying to remember what he could from the fighting he’d seen in the Games when he still watched them as a teenager. It was the first time he had ever regretted not paying closer attention to the broadcasts, and even though it was purely for the sake of being more useful to Enjolras, that mental admission made him uneasy.

“The way I see it, everyone’s going to want to avoid close combat for their own sakes. Your best bet is to get a ranged weapon -- knives, I suppose -- and get out of there before anyone catches you.”

Enjolras nodded. “That makes sense. I just,” he waved a hand around aimlessly. “I don’t want to end up in a situation where I’m useless, you know?”

"I know, believe me," Grantaire tried not to reveal too much with those four words, but Enjolras looked at him sharply.

"You're not useless."

Grantaire snorted and made to move away. "You don't know me."

Enjolras grabbed his arm to stop him. He spoke in low, barely audible tones. "I know that they wouldn't be punishing you if you were useless. You wouldn't be here if you weren't good at something."

He hesitated, looking as though he was seriously torn, like he was considering telling him something more. Grantaire widened his eyes and shook his head slightly in warning. He raised his free hand slowly to his ear, lingering just long enough for Enjolras to catch on before disguising it by pushing back his hair.

Enjolras nodded grimly. Grantaire eyed his hand and he released him promptly, pale marks fading where his fingers had gripped.

Grantaire felt frustration coil in his gut. Enjolras was on the cusp of telling him something and he desperately wanted to know what was going on, but he wasn't going to risk anyone overhearing anything confidential.

"Let's go back and get cleaned up," Grantaire said with forced calm. "You'll be back training tomorrow, I'd suggest spending that time on ranged weapons. No more physical activity today."

Enjolras begrudgingly agreed, though whether or not he'd actually go along with Grantaire's advice was anybody's guess.

On leaving the gym, Enjolras' ever-present guard grabbed him by the arm and the base of the neck to march him away, but to Grantaire's surprise he merely grimaced and bared his teeth unhappily in response.

Maybe Panem's greatest rebel could do what he was told after all.

 

***

 

Grantaire didn't like the unnecessarily high-tech shower in his room. Literally, what was the point of so many nozzles and dials and soaps? People in the districts could go weeks without clean water, and yet this was what the Capitol did?

He stepped out and dried off after as little time as possible that could leave him clean. He didn't have the most impressive wardrobe in the world, mostly consisting of black and dark colours, so it was black jeans and a bottle green sweatshirt he tugged on before wandering out to see what the others were up to.

He stopped short when he heard his name being mentioned then slipped closer to the door, stepping lightly.

"...I don't see why we can't trust him." That was Jehan.

"We barely know him, this could be a Capitol ploy for us to open up. Plant somebody who seems sympathetic and just wait for us to talk." Valjean. Grantaire had known there was a connection between those two.

"I agree," Grantaire held back a wince when a third voice spoke up. _Thanks, Enjolras._ "But at the same time, he's not done anything to make me doubt him. He has yet to try and get anything out of me whatsoever, and he's had plenty of opportunity. He's even stopped me when I've almost slipped up once or twice."

 _Well_.

" _Enjolras_ ," Valjean and Jehan chided simultaneously. Grantaire could almost hear him shrug in response.

"I'm just saying."

Grantaire sighed then and pushed the door open. The trio froze and all but Jehan stared at him warily.

"If you're going to have a conversation you don't want overheard, don't do it by the bedroom of the guy you're talking about, and don't do it in a bugged hallway," Grantaire returned the stare, speaking in a low whisper.

A moment of silence passed and then Jehan lifted his head and spoke, not to Grantaire but to Valjean.

"Now do you believe me?"

Valjean held out a strange device in lieu of replying; the same one Grantaire had noticed Jehan slipping into his pocket earlier that day. It was a slim black box with three tiny dials and two little lights, one unlit, one green. “Signal jammer. Audio is disrupted. We’re still on camera, but this is an awkward angle for them. As for the overhearing thing, well. We figured if you _weren’t_ to be trusted you would just pretend you hadn’t overheard anything.”

Grantaire mulled that over in his head for a moment. It _did_ make sense… In a way. “So what’s the verdict? Am I to be trusted or still on your watchlist?”

Valjean’s lips twitched as if he was holding back a smile. “These two seem to think the former. But forgive us if we don’t divulge our plans for world domination to you just yet.”

“We don’t have any world domination plans,” Jehan butted in hastily when Grantaire promptly went very pale.

“Yet,” muttered Enjolras, which was not really terribly reassuring. He merely winked when Grantaire looked at him. He could feel his face heating up, so he averted his gaze.

So they were definitely up to something, they'd as much as confirmed it. But what? Most likely something that would get most, if not all, of them killed. How was Jehan in on it, living in the Capitol? Was there some underground communications network linking the outlying districts with the in-city supporters? And what good was it losing their poster boy by having Enjolras sacrifice himself in the Games?

Grantaire felt increasingly uneasy as the seconds passed and he thought about it more. Whatever was going on, it wasn't going to be good. Something heavy settled in his stomach. Much as he hated the Capitol, supported the rebellion, despised all the corruption and abuse and _everything..._

Revolution meant war. And Grantaire was _scared._

“Right,” Grantaire muttered darkly, edging past them. “Well, if you feel like letting me in on anything or think I can be useful, you know where to find me. I mean, literally. You’re standing directly outside my room.”

As he spoke, Helene skidded to a halt beside him, appearing from the direction of the living area. “Dinner!” she cried excitedly, then ran off again.

Grantaire turned sharply to the others then, bristling with sudden anger. "And her?"

“She doesn’t know,” Enjolras said quickly, quietly, being the first to catch on. He took a step towards Grantaire. “She doesn’t know anything we've planned, Grantaire. We wouldn’t risk her getting hurt.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better? That she’s just another innocent kid being sent to the slaughter?” _Just like you?_ , he didn’t say, but Enjolras seemed to hear it anyway.

His face darkened and he opened his mouth to reply but Valjean beat him to it, grabbing them both by the arm and pushing them towards the opposite end of the hallway. “My room. Balcony. The wind will cover the sound. Do _not_ do this where it’ll be heard.”

Grantaire found himself storming past an extremely alarmed looking Jehan and slamming the door open to Valjean’s room. He didn’t stop moving until he was on the balcony, staring out across the rapidly darkening city.

Enjolras slid the door shut behind him. “Talk to me.” His tone was calm, but it was clearly effortful to achieve it.

“Wouldn’t risk her getting hurt,” he spat the words into the gathering dusk, mouth twisting in disgust, arms braced on the protective railing. Enjolras hesitantly moved to stand beside him. “As if you had any choice in all of this. In any of this. She’s going to get hurt anyway. We all are; that’s the entire fucking _point_ of these games.”

Enjolras was staring at him curiously, so he turned his face away, not wanting to see what expressions passed over his face. He knew it was futile, this anger. He knew it was pointless taking it out on Enjolras, on Valjean and Jehan, when all they were doing was fighting back, but he couldn’t help it.

He wasn’t angry at them. He was angry at the Capitol. At the entire fucking _world._

He waited for Enjolras to go off on one, to criticize his privileged upbringing, point out he’d never had to fear a reaping, remind him who it was that was actually going to be forced into the arena at the end of the week.

But he didn’t.

He actually… _Got_ it.

Enjolras swallowed his own initial reaction of anger and tentatively reached out for Grantaire’s shoulder. He tensed, but allowed it.

“I did,” he said quietly. Grantaire turned his head an increment to look at him, confused. “You say I didn’t have a choice. I volunteered.”

That much was true. Grantaire didn’t reply, instead turning his back to the railing and sinking to the ground. He motioned at Enjolras to carry on, and after a second the boy joined him on the cold concrete. He took a deep breath. This would be a critical decision for him, Grantaire realised. _Does he trust me? Is this going to be the truth?_

“The reaping was rigged,” Enjolras said eventually. Grantaire looked at him sharply. He just nodded, looking frustrated and defeated. “I… Look, I don’t want to go into everything -- you understand -- but back home… That’s to say, in District 12, I’m not the only one in charge. Valjean obviously plays a crucial part, and we have… Contacts here, but back there I’m just… I’m the one in the public eye, the one who gets caught, because I’m the one who has nothing to lose, right? The Capitol thinking I’m the sole leader is what keeps my people safe. But they must have caught wind of some, if not all, of my… My friends.”

“Combeferre,” Grantaire interjected quietly, remembering the reaping. Enjolras tensed, then nodded.

“Combeferre,” he agreed. “He’s… Every bit as passionate, loyal and determined as me, but a lot more level-headed to boot. Not so hot-tempered. He’s the organiser, he’s the one with the cunning and patience to concoct plans and bring them to fruition. He’s also the one with family,” Enjolras hesitated. “He’s my best friend. And without him, everything we’ve fought for would fall. So they chose him for the reaping. I guess they knew he was more crucial to the cause in the long term, and they assumed that I was selfish and big-headed enough to think myself too important to sacrifice in his place.” He grinned bitterly. “Guess again.”

“Why you, though? Why give them any of the leaders?”

Enjolras narrowed his eyes. “What, get someone else to volunteer? You think their lives are any less important?”

Grantaire sighed and put his face in his hands. “You know I don’t, Enjolras,” he said, tired.

Enjolras paused. “No, you don’t. The fact of the matter is, we had to give them someone. Someone high profile. If I’d stayed behind and let someone else go in my place, I would have been a coward. I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself, and they would have found a way to kill me anyway. As it is, I know that there isn’t going to be another meaningless death. I can mean something.”

“You already mean something.”

Enjolras, for all his words, had no response for that. He merely shook his head then after a moment’s hesitation, closed the gap between them and rested his head on Grantaire’s shoulder, closing his eyes and shutting out the rest of the world. Grantaire inclined his own head so that his cheek was pressed against Enjolras’ golden hair, struck again by just how young and vulnerable the boy seemed when all of his barriers were stripped away.

They stayed like that for what felt like hours, only leaving when Jehan slipped through to inform them that dinner would only be available for a short while now, if they wanted anything. Much as they didn’t want to move, they had a choice that wasn’t available to so many outside the walls of the Capitol, and they chose to keep their strength up for the following days’ fights.

They chose food.

 

***

 

Far underground, hundreds of miles away beneath the twisting streets in the depths of District 12, a young man sat hunched over in a bunker, a curious device on the table in front of him. It had three screens each not much bigger than his face, and two keyboard-like objects with keys of varying sizes and shapes. An instrument of sorts was attached to the side of one keyboard, and out of it poured a steady stream of paper with bizarre marks sprawled across it in fast-drying ink.

He swore as he deciphered the code.

“Combeferre?” said a voice, and when he looked up a familiar figure was leaning in the door. “What is it? News from the Capitol?”

Combeferre straightened in his seat and took his glasses off to rub at his face. “Not exactly promising, but yes.”

The man frowned and came into the room. Behind him, Combeferre could hear strains of conversations taking place in one of the bigger rooms down the hallway, where more of their group were assembled, making plans and preparations and familiarising themselves with blueprints and various collected data. The noise was muffled significantly when his friend closed the door.

“What is it?” he repeated.

“They conscripted the wrong person to the team. From what they can tell, the guy works with Bahorel, so there is a chance that he is sympathetic to the cause, but…”

“He could just be a plant so that we trust him and leak him information, and royally fuck up?”

Combeferre grinned despite himself. “Eloquently put, Courfeyrac.”

“I try,” Courfeyrac said dryly, sitting down beside Combeferre and taking a look at the beginning of the message for himself. “So what are we going to do about it?”

“Nothing, for now,” Combeferre sighed. “It’s too late to change any of our plans, and it probably wouldn’t be worth it anyway. It would have helped to have Bahorel -- Jehan’s met with him before, he would have been a valuable person to have with them, admittedly. But Valjean says he can contact him undetected from the centre, so he may prove to be just as valuable on the outside as far as rousing the sleepers goes. As for this other guy…” He trailed off with a shrug. “We keep him in the dark and wait and see where his sympathies lie, I suppose.”

Courfeyrac laughed humorlessly and let himself slump against Combeferre’s shoulder. “That’s reassuring. Enjolras must be _thrilled.”_

“That’s another weird thing,” Combeferre said, plucking the paper from Courfeyrac’s fingers and indicating some scrawls near the end. “He likes him.”

Courfeyrac craned his neck to look up at Combeferre, disbelief plastered plain across his face. “He what?”

“Enjolras likes this guy -- Grantaire, his name is. He seems to think we can trust him. I know, Courf, I don’t get it either.”

“We’ll have to dig up his profile somehow,” Courfeyrac frowned, deep in concentration, then snapped out of it quickly. “Actually, no, I need to dig up his info; you need to sleep. You’ve been working non-stop since Enjolras went in. No buts!” he said, when Combeferre tried to protest. “Joly and Bossuet can cover the communications links. I’ll keep an eye on everything else.”

Combeferre inclined his head after a moment, resigned to his fate. He was exhausted, and although he kept a cool exterior there were two people in the world who could tell when he was barely keeping it together, and Courfeyrac was one of them. He smiled and linked their hands together, raising them to his mouth and kissing Courfeyrac’s knuckles; a simple enough gesture, it would get him beaten if they were seen by any of the peacekeepers.

Just another reason this world needed to change.

At any cost.

 

**Day 3**

 

“Come on, Enjolras,” Grantaire muttered under his breath. He was in the mentor’s viewing room, just off the side of the training halls, to supervise Enjolras’ training. As if he’d heard him Enjolras glanced up at the one way mirror separating them, gave the combat training a last longing glance and turned his back from it, heading over to the weapons range.

“Just as well for you.”

Leaning against the glass by his side, Jehan snorted. “You are so weird.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes, “Well telekinesis wasn’t working, I had to try something different.” He tore his gaze away from where Enjolras was looking over the selection of knives, fingers running over the handles delicately as he sized them up, and began to search for the other tribute. “What’ve you got Helene doing?”

Jehan pointed to a table at the opposite side of the room, where Helene and a tutor had their heads bent over a screen. “Basic survival training. What foods are safe to eat, how to check for clean water, staying warm, setting snares, staying hidden… You know.”

Grantaire pretended not to see the way his expression twitched in discomfort. They both knew it would probably do no good. Enjolras’ best chance was to wait it out and fight long range, to use his instincts and cunning; Helene’s only chance was to stay away from all other tributes and hope nobody caught her.

It wasn’t much of a chance at all.

Grantaire turned his attention back to the other tributes scattered around the space. He had a notebook resting on his knee and was rapidly scrawling notes on their techniques, their strengths and weaknesses. It was probably cheating, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. The other mentors already looked down their noses at him and Jehan at every opportunity, what was one more excuse?

He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned his head in acknowledgement but kept his eyes on the female tribute from 4 as she hefted a wickedly barbed spear and launched it at a mannequin-shaped target. He barely held back a wince as it passed right through the dip of its left eye socket.

“The male tributes from 1 and 3 and the girl from 2 appear to be working together.”

Grantaire nodded and added the information to his notes without breaking stride. Valjean had been pacing the room, listening in to the conversations being held between other mentors, all the while keeping one eye on those training and returning every so often to pass his observations onto Grantaire.

“Also,” this time he lowered his voice more. “I’m glad you two managed to talk that out yesterday.”

Grantaire stilled for a moment, thinking back to the comforting weight resting on his shoulder the previous night. “Well, I’m glad you decided to trust me.”

Valjean hesitated, nodded once, then moved off again. Grantaire’s eyes sought out Enjolras just as he spun around and sunk a knife into the dead centre of a target. He caught the way his eyes widened slightly in surprise even as he tried to hide the emotion. Grantaire’s lips twitched in a smile.

 _A decent throwing arm,_ he’d said. Grantaire watched as he tentatively picked out three more knives and launched them all in rapid succession at the target. None of the rest of them were quite as well thrown as the first, but all of them hit home, sinking into the board, handles quivering with the force of the impact.

Enjolras cast a quick glance around himself to check if anyone had seen, then allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction, a smile flickering across his face. He blew a strand of hair out of his face and his eyes caught on the mentors’ mirror. His expression turned thoughtful and his eyes began to scan the glass as if searching for a weakness or imperfection in its surface.

Grantaire wondered what he was thinking about. He felt an involuntary shiver as the boy’s eyes passed over where he was sitting, perched on the ledge below the window. Then Enjolras gave a small half-smile, shaking his head to himself as if laughing at some private joke.

He was jolted out of his reverie by a nudge at his elbow. He turned to frown at Jehan’s foot, hovering by his arm.

“6 nearly took out her instructor,” he said almost apologetically. “That’s one to stay very far away from.”

Grantaire sighed. “Aren’t they all?”

He wrote it down anyway.

 

***

 

“Tell me about them,” Enjolras said breathlessly, dropping to the floor beside Grantaire. He very carefully averted his gaze from the rapid rise and fall of Enjolras’ chest with each breath, clearly visible under the tight-fitting material of his training gear, soaked in sweat.

“What?” Grantaire raised an eyebrow. He’d been absentmindedly watching Enjolras try his hand at some other weapons without the tutor he’d taken instruction from towards the end of the group training earlier that day. Spears were something of a lost cause but knives, daggers, axes and a bow and arrows all seemed to have great potential in Enjolras’ hands.

Was that a blush or was he just red-faced from exertion?

“Your tattoos,” Enjolras clarified, then quickly continued: “Only if you want to, though. You don’t have to, I know tattoos can be personal.”

“If you can, throw on the exhale, not the inhale,” Grantaire reminded him. Enjolras acknowledged the advice with a nod. “And what do you mean? I already told you about them.”

Enjolras smiled. “No, you told me about tattooing. I want to hear about your tattoos.”

“There’s not that much to tell, really,” Grantaire shrugged. “I guess the phasing moon is a roundabout way of reminding me that the universe will keep going regardless of how badly we fuck up down here, but as for the rest…” He trailed his fingers over the vines curling up his neck and briefly wondered whether they were in bloom or merely growing and retreating with each breath. Enjolras’ eyes tracked every movement. “To tell you the truth, I just like how they look.”

“Me too,” Enjolras admitted quietly. Grantaire caught his gaze for a long moment.

“How about we make a deal? You get out of that arena and I’ll fix you up with a lattice, yeah?” he suggested, quietly, halfheartedly.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Enjolras replied with a somewhat bitter smile. He hesitated, eyes lingering on the vines.

“Go on,” Grantaire laughed, turning his head and lifting his chin in invitation. He tried to keep his breathing even, but he couldn’t help the hitch in his breath when Enjolras’ gentle finger delicately traced the design. Enjolras himself inhaled sharply, withdrawing his hand as if on the receiving end of a static shock.

“It flowered,” he breathed in awe.

“Yeah, it does that,” Grantaire bit his lip to fight off a smile. He was acutely aware of just how close he was to the man, sprawled across the floor; Enjolras leaning in with his hand mere millimetres from his skin. So close that Grantaire could see his own breath toying with some golden strands of hair escaping from Enjolras’ hair ribbon.

He took a deep breath and got to his feet, dusting himself off from the floor before offering Enjolras a hand. “Come on, let’s work on your archery stance. Nail that and the targets become _that_ much easier to hit. Although, tomorrow for your private session I’d stick to your knives.”

Enjolras took his hand and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet with a grimace. “I doubt I can even draw the string properly without my arms giving out at this stage. My muscles are screaming,” he admitted as soon as they were once again eye to eye.

“We can work on dodging and self defence later if you want a break from upper body work,” Grantaire replied, reluctantly releasing himself from Enjolras’ lingering grip on his hand to go retrieve the bow.

“Right,” Enjolras sighed, cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders. “Let’s do this.”

Grantaire soon realised that this was really not what he should have suggested. There was only so much correcting he could do to Enjolras’ stance without touching him, and once he started he couldn’t stop. Turning him by the waist, nudging his legs to a position that would better his balance, straightening his back, pushing back his shoulders, raising his elbow to a better angle. Worst of all was when he demonstrated ( _why did he do that_ ) by standing behind him ( _pressed against his back, really_ ) and placing his hands over Enjolras’ to guide him through the optimum movement.

He wouldn’t have been surprised if Enjolras could feel his heart pounding all the while.

He couldn’t tell if Enjolras was concentrating on perfecting the positioning or deliberately leaning back into his hold.

Moving on later, at least the point of evasive techniques was _not_ touching each other.

 

***

 

After training, Grantaire had to go take care of some publicity press deal or other. Usually Jehan took care of this sort of thing, but they were in huge demand after the opening ceremony and Grantaire had to show his face at some point. He answered questions on his inspirations and design process and redirected anyone who tried to look too closely into his personal relationship with the tributes, because he just didn’t want to talk about it. (It wasn’t anything to do with the constricting of his heart and the bizarre sensation in his stomach every time he thought of him. _It wasn’t._ )

It occurred to him about half an hour in that not a single person he spoke to realised that the kid was the leader of a rebellion. Not one of these people came from the outlying city areas, the dirtier streets and darker buildings that Grantaire was from; not one of them heard or believed a thing that the government didn’t tell them.

And that terrified him.

He wondered about Enjolras’ team, Combeferre, Jehan, Valjean, everyone else; did they know this? Did they know the inner city was entirely oblivious to their plans, that even the outer limits had only rumours and whispers to raise suspicion? How many government officials were even aware of the situation? It was just standard procedure to treat the Districts like scum, Grantaire hadn’t even realised that the maltreatment Enjolras received from the guards could be entirely unrelated to his reputation, that the constant guard presence could be explained away by lying about an assault on somebody who didn’t even exist.

Was this ignorance what the rebellion was relying on?

This time when he got back to his room Grantaire spent longer than he cared to admit in the shower. He stood and let the water pour over him until he was sure there should have been a significant drop in temperature, had this been any other shower. He tried to let it wash away his musings about the rebellion, as well as the feeling of Enjolras watching him across the communal area when he’d stumbled off the elevator. He tried not to think about the odd look in Enjolras' eyes when Grantaire mumbled his excuses and headed straight for his bedroom instead of stopping to trade notes from the day with Jehan and Valjean.

He stumbled out of the bathroom in only a towel, hastily dressing in the nearest available clothing and dragging a hopeless hand through his hair. He kicked aside the sweaty clothes he’d unceremoniously dumped on the floor on his way to the shower and slowly made his way out to the living area.

He froze at the sight that greeted him.

Evidently their hosts were no longer considering them all to be quite as much of a threat as they’d originally believed, because some of the guards had been removed. Removed, and replaced.

With Avoxes.

Grantaire turned the corner and came face to face with a young woman, head bowed, and felt ice rush through his veins. He honestly would have thought that his heart had stopped had he been thinking at all at this point.

Her dark hair, petite build, enforced submissive demeanour -- every detail screamed familiarity at him. His legs nearly gave out.

He forced himself to look closer. _No. No, it isn’t her._ Her eyes were brown and she had less freckles and she would look him in the eye, for even a fleeting second; she’d let him know it was her.

Cosette was safe at home with Feuilly, Bahorel, Marius, Eponine.

Slowly the feeling bled back into his body. When his blood stopped roaring in his ears, he realised somebody was speaking to him. He was caught by the shoulder and spun around to face Valjean, whose usually composed face was now teeming with barely contained anger.

“Have you got a problem with her?” he said through clenched teeth. Grantaire couldn’t understand, he couldn’t think, why was Valjean angry? Why couldn’t he breathe?

He turned and fled.

The next thing he knew, he was draped over Valjean’s balcony railing and taking heaving gasps of air, trying to force the bile back down his throat. A soothing hand was rubbing small circles on his back.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras’ voice was quiet, cautious, guarded. Grantaire sank to the ground, pressing his face against the cold metal bars of the railing. “Tell me that wasn’t what it looked like. If it was, Valjean has every right to be mad at you, but I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

Grantaire turned his head to meet Enjolras’ eyes. He looked wary of him. Grantaire shook his head.

“I thought she was-- there’s a girl I know and she’s-- I thought they’d--” Grantaire’s head dropped. He couldn’t get out  the words, but Enjolras seemed to understand anyway. He visibly relaxed, tension draining from his body.

“Is it her?” he asked, concerned, sinking to his knees and pushing Grantaire’s hair from his face reflexively with one hand, the other resting comfortingly on his shoulder.

Grantaire shook his head weakly. “She was the right height, right build, I thought--” he broke off with a wounded noise and swallowed thickly. “What if they know? What if they’re taunting me?”

Enjolras hesitated. “I don’t know, Grantaire. I can’t help you if I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Grantaire pressed his face to the bars again, deeply breathing in what counted as fresh air this far into the centre of the city. “I don’t even know the whole story,” something distantly told him that he probably shouldn’t be revealing this. _It isn’t your story to tell._ “But there’s a girl… An Avox. I don’t know how or why. But we took her in, we keep her safe. For a second there, just a split second, I thought they’d caught her, Enjolras.”

Enjolras was silent for a moment. “It’s okay,” he said. “It wasn’t her. She _is_ safe, Grantaire.”

“But you don’t _know_ that,” Grantaire whimpered, still taking shuddering breaths. He hadn’t had a panic attack in months, getting a handle on it proved more difficult than he would have expected. He curled so far in on himself that he didn’t realise Enjolras had left until he returned with a glass of water.

A cool hand touched his jaw, the other folding the glass into his own hand. “Drink,” he ordered. Grantaire stared at him blankly.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras said, and it was with all the command of the infamous revolutionary that Grantaire forgot existed at times. “Take deep breaths and _drink._ We need to get you calm.”

After a few more desperate lungfuls, Grantaire managed to do as he was told. He shivered, the cold air suddenly cutting through his thin clothing, chilling him where he was already damp from his shower.

“Shit, you’re freezing,” Enjolras’ eyes widened with worry. “Come on, get inside.”

“No,” he choked out. “Not where they can hear me. Not now.”

Enjolras hesitated then darted into the building again. In his absence, Grantaire clutched his knees to his chest, trying to will the cold away. He looked up when something warm draped around his shoulders. Enjolras had relieved somebody’s bed of its duvet.

“Better?” Enjolras asked after helping him to arrange it so that he was completely enveloped by the blanket. Grantaire nodded minutely, so Enjolras settled back down beside him, sitting just close enough that he was a comforting pressure against Grantaire’s side even through the duvet.

“Jehan’s spoken to Bahorel,” Enjolras said quietly after a minute or so of silence. “Everything is fine on their end. You’ve nothing to worry about.”

Grantaire’s answering laugh was verging on hysterical. “I always have something to worry about.”

“Well, no more so than usual,” Enjolras tugged his sweatshirt sleeves down over his hands. _Red,_ Grantaire noted. It really did suit him. He watched as he suppressed a shudder.

“Now _you’re_ cold. Go back inside,” Grantaire tried to order him, but his heart wasn’t in it.

Enjolras shook his head. “I’m not leaving you here on your own, not in this state.”

“You know I can’t jump, right?” Grantaire said suddenly. Enjolras eyed him warily. “Force fields everywhere, I’d bounce straight back onto this balcony.”

“The fact that you’re even thinking about that is just cementing my determination to not leave you.”

Grantaire would give him that one. He thought for a second and then unraveled part of his duvet. “Come on. I’m still a little cold, we can warm each other up. Not like that,” he added when Enjolras raised his eyebrows incredulously.

“Obviously not, it’s far too cold for that to work,” Enjolras muttered, but he took him up on his invitation, climbing into the duvet and settling it back around them. Admittedly, it was a lot warmer like this.

“You underestimate me, clearly,” Grantaire said, voice muffled from having pulled the duvet up over the lower half of his face. Enjolras rolled his eyes, but he looked amused.

They sat in silence for a while, sharing nothing but body heat and each other’s comforting presence.

Grantaire sighed.

“What?” Enjolras asked.

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire said quietly. “Christ, here you are against your will, about to be thrown into a glorified fight to the death, and you’re the one comforting _me.”_

He felt more than saw Enjolras shrug, his shoulders brushing Grantaire’s with the movement. “Everything’s relative.” He frowned suddenly. “By the way, don’t worry about Valjean’s reaction. He thought… Well, Avoxes are a touchy subject for him. There was a young girl he was taking care of, an Avox. He loved her like she was his own daughter, but she wasn’t. Nobody knows where she came from, and one day she just disappeared. Rumour has it that she was a runaway that he took in then got caught. Nobody really knows the full story, nobody but Valjean. Just… remember he’s lost people too, okay?”

Grantaire nodded slowly. “I understand.”

Enjolras watched him carefully. “You know we have to go in at some point, right?” he asked, surprisingly gentle. Grantaire nodded again, jerkily, sinking further to the ground and curling closer to Enjolras as he did so.

“Not yet,” he pleaded quietly.

This time when Jehan came to find them, they were both wound tight in the duvet, pressed close to each other, Grantaire’s head resting against Enjolras’ chest, Enjolras’ arm around his shoulders, sleeping soundly.

Jehan hesitated before going back inside, shutting the door softly behind him as he went.

 

**Day 4**

 

Grantaire woke overcome with a peculiar sensation. He tensed momentarily, keeping his eyes shut until he located the source of the sensation.

“Any particular reason you’re standing in my doorway watching me sleep?”

Enjolras froze. “I wasn’t…”

Grantaire rolled over and looked at him. He was valiantly fending off a blush, but the tips of his ears were tinged red. Grantaire sighed and sat up, rolling his neck and stretching with a satisfying series of pops. He shook off a memory ( _of waking up to gentle touches on his neck, murmured encouragement to get into his bed, the warmth of an arm supporting him through to his room_ ) and sat up. “Nervous?”

Enjolras shook his head, a tight little movement that had Grantaire shooting him a look of disbelief.

“No, it’s just… Uncertainty, really,” Enjolras shrugged, wrapping his arms around himself. “Which I guess is nerves, yeah.”

Grantaire glanced over at the clock before dragging himself out of bed. 7.30. The last training session didn’t start until 8, and the private evaluation sessions for the Gamemakers didn’t begin until 12. “Well, I know it’s easier said than done, but try not to worry about it. You’ve got sponsors coming out the wahoo anyway, Jehan’s made sure of that; it’s hardly like your training score will put much of a dent in anything.” He hesitated before adding, “And besides, your reputation is going to get you targeted either way, but you knew that coming into this.”

“Right,” Enjolras tentatively walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. He was fidgeting. His eyes lingered on Grantaire and then darted away when he caught his eye, only to return to watching him as soon as he thought he wasn’t looking. He made a noise of frustration. “I can’t believe I’m going to try to win the approval of these people. This is literally everything I fucking hate.”

Grantaire gave him a sad smile. “Yeah, but you knew that coming into this, too.”

Enjolras sighed. “I did. I only hope it all ends up worth it.”

Grantaire paused in the middle of buttoning his jeans, eyeing him carefully. “And what’s the likelihood of that?” he asked quietly, stooping to pick up a discarded t-shirt and pull it on. When he next looked over, Enjolras was watching him with a peculiar expression.

“It’s no longer in my hands,” he replied carefully, with a forced smile that conveyed nothing like happiness. “I wouldn’t know. I just have to stick to my plan and not die.”

Grantaire snorted a laugh despite himself. “Sounds like a good idea to me,” he said, all the while praying to any and all listening deities that whoever’s hands ‘it’ was in, they were good and competent ones. “Come on, let’s get you fed before your last little gym session.” He offered Enjolras his hand and hauled him to his feet, apparently misjudging Enjolras’ weight because he staggered forward until they were nose to nose, eyes widening in alarm.

“Woah,” Grantaire said, and stepped back with a blush slowly spreading across his cheeks. “Sorry.”

“Uh, no problem, but… Grantaire?” Enjolras’ lips twitched as though he was resisting a smile. “You’re going to have to let go of my hand if I’m going to get anything done today.”

Grantaire looked down and saw he was, in fact, still holding Enjolras’ hand. He released it with another muttered apology and tried not to react when Enjolras’ fingertips dragged lightly against his palm as he withdrew his hand.

“Don’t worry about it,” Enjolras wasn’t even trying to hide his smirk now, his eyes burning with a familiar intense look that Grantaire was determined not to think about too much. He didn’t move, so Grantaire had to brush past him in order to leave the room and head for the communal area, hoping breakfast had been laid out already.

Enjolras trailed close behind him, and if Grantaire turned he was sure he would see that same smirk still resting on his lips. Not that he was looking at his lips. Nor was he thinking about them.

_Fuck._

At least Enjolras’ nerves seemed to have calmed some.

 

***

 

They weren’t allowed to watch the evaluation sessions. Grantaire, Jehan and Valjean were herded out of the viewing room when the preparatory training session came to a close and sent to another side room where the tributes would wait until they were called forwards.

“Hey,” Grantaire said, sliding into place on the end of a long metal bench next to Enjolras. Helene sat on his other side, fidgeting, and Valjean crouched in front of her with a soothing smile as Jehan sat beside her to chat. They had her covered, so Grantaire turned his full attention to Enjolras. “How you doing?”

“I might fuck this up,” Enjolras replied calmly. Grantaire raised his eyebrow at him and he shrugged. “I missed the target a few times, is all. But I guess it doesn’t matter all too much, I’ll just have to see how it goes.”

Grantaire nodded, watching him carefully. He seemed to be telling the truth, and Grantaire relayed the thought to him. Enjolras flashed a crooked smile, not even flinching as a District 3 tribute was called through over the speaker system.

“I’m alright now, seriously. I’m fine once I start doing things, it’s the waiting that kills me, you know?” he admitted in a low voice. “Not knowing in advance whether or not your plan is going to work is almost always more stressful than carrying it out. Although,” he added, “When it comes to this past week it’s been the exact opposite. It’s like I’m in some weird dream, like I haven’t accepted this is actually happening. I _am_ worried that it might all hit me and debilitate me when I enter the arena.”

“Yeah, I get you,” Grantaire grasped Enjolras’ shoulder gently. “But don’t think about that now, think about what you’re about to get into in the next hour. Never think ahead of yourself more than a day or two, otherwise you’ll stress yourself out too much to even get that far. So, anyway, what is your plan? Knives?”

Enjolras nodded. “Long range, like you suggested. I think I’ll start off with arrows then move on to axes, and finish off with knives. Start good and finish better, hopefully.”

“Good plan,” Grantaire said approvingly, then nudged him in a playful manner. “If it helps any, imagine the face of the last person who pissed you off in the middle of the target. Even if it doesn’t particularly improve your aim, it’s a lot more satisfying when you hit home.”

Enjolras’ entire face transformed with his stifled laughter. His eyes glittered and his nose wrinkled up and he bit his lip to abort the sound, and it shouldn’t have been cute, and yet. “But won’t you be offended if I throw knives at your imaginary face?” he nudged Grantaire back, grin wicked.

“Rude!” Grantaire replied, hand shooting to cover his heart dramatically as he feigned extreme offense, then he pretended to consider. “Actually, no. I’d be more offended if you _missed,_ after such masterful training as I’ve been slaving to give you.”

“I will do my utmost not to disappoint you, o all-knowing master,” Enjolras deadpanned, and Grantaire full on snorted.

“All-knowing is going a bit far, kid. I’d almost think you were mocking me.”

“God forbid,” Enjolras said with a smirk. Grantaire pouted and bumped him with his shoulder, which led to a brief shoulder-butting war which was brought to an abrupt halt when Grantaire accidentally nudged Enjolras a little too hard and he ended up falling sideways onto Helene, after which Valjean told them to behave themselves and it became increasingly difficult not to just _laugh._

After that, they sat in a curiously comfortable silence as the other tributes got called through one by one, until eventually the buzzer went and a clear voice that sounded unnervingly like Trixylyl announced, “District 12, Tribute Enjolras.”

Grantaire got to his feet as Enjolras did, putting a hand on his shoulder for support and giving him an encouraging grin as he turned to leave. “Knock ‘em dead, kid.”

An odd light flashed in Enjolras’ eyes as he smiled at him. “Don’t call me kid.”

And then he was gone.

 

***

 

Valjean offered to wait with Helene so that Jehan and Grantaire could get some much-needed work done on finishing their costume designs for the interview the next night. Truth be told, it was tough going, and both of them somewhat regretted pulling out all the stops at the opening ceremony as neither could figure out how to top their phoenix get-ups and stay in line with the formal dress code.

“Grantaire,” Jehan said with very little exasperation, considering it was the fifth time he’d repeated the sentence in the space of approximately twenty minutes. “We are not turning them into dragons.”

“Just hear me out, it does make sense!” Grantaire persisted halfheartedly, more because he had very little in the way of other ideas to contribute.

Jehan shook his head, rolling his eyes in amusement as he did so. “No. I’m putting my foot down. I still like the fire idea, because it does tie in with their district theme -- coal, fire, it isn’t a far stretch -- so I think we need to stick with that route.

They spent another five minutes silently contemplating before Grantaire spoke again, quietly.

“Volcanoes have fire.”

Jehan launched his sketchbook at him. He ducked and cackled, hearing the book hit the ground with a satisfying thud. Jehan sunk his head to the tabletop in defeat.

“Magma. Volcanoes have magma. Just-- fine, go back to your fucking dragons idea.”

Grantaire grinned triumphantly, going to retrieve the sketchbook from the floor to show him something he’d sketched out earlier in a fit of boredom.

“I’m thinking,” he said. “Scales.”

Jehan groaned.

 

***

 

It would be late evening before the scores were broadcast to the nation, so even though Jehan and Grantaire returned to their floor later than usual there was still a lot of time to kill.

By the time they arrived, the others were lounging in the communal area, the TV screen on and muted in the background. Grantaire glanced at it as they headed over to the sound of lazy greetings; it was showing “highlights” of previous Games. His jaw clenched, but he managed to tear his gaze away and say nothing.

Valjean looked distinctly uncomfortable with the footage being on; it must have been nearing his year. Grantaire caught his eye and gave him an understanding nod; Valjean inclined his head in acknowledgement.

“So,” Grantaire said, throwing himself down on the the ridiculously luxurious sofa between Enjolras and Helene. “How did we do?” he asked, snaking a hand out to steal a grape from the bowl Helene was holding on her knee. There was a whole host of snack food spread across the table, he noticed, which was good because he and Jehan were starving.

“Let me just consult my crystal ball,” Enjolras replied with a feigned withering look, which disappeared when Grantaire leaned on him heavily. “Hey! Get off!”

Grantaire grinned and tugged a strand of his hair playfully. “Then don’t be a snarky git.”

Enjolras’ eyes darkened inexplicably for a moment, his eyes lingering on where Grantaire’s finger was still wrapped up in a lock of his hair, Hades curled up just beneath the knuckle. Grantaire’s laughter caught in his throat, his heart stuttering.

Jehan and Valjean exchanged a look across the room that both of them missed. Jehan rolled his eyes and Helene giggled, which was enough to make Grantaire break the stare and roll over to steal more of her food.

“Seriously,” Jehan said pointedly. “How do you guys _think_ you did?”

“I camouflaged myself so well they actually sent in a guard to look for me,” admitted Helene, and when the others looked to her with stunned expressions she smiled. “Little people are good at hiding. You don’t have to fight to win the Games, you know,” she said in a whisper, as if imparting a great secret on them all.

“That you do not,” Valjean said with a tone of barely concealed bewilderment. Grantaire wondered fleetingly whether they’d all grossly underestimated the little girl after all, but then she offered him another grape and he was distracted again.

“What about you?” he asked, turning slightly to gently kick Enjolras in the thigh.

Enjolras glowered at his foot for a moment before replying with a shrug. “Hit a couple of targets. We’ll see how it goes.”

Grantaire had a feeling he was holding something back, but he let it go. They would find out soon enough just how impressed the evaluators had been, and that was all that really mattered when it all came down to it.

The five of them simply sat and chatted aimlessly while they waited for their food to arrive. Grantaire wondered absentmindedly whether their quartet of beauticians would be joining them; they were technically welcome on the floor at all times, but they’d yet to surface from whatever corner of the centre it was they spent the rest of their time in. In fact, Grantaire hadn’t even seen any of them since the second day.

He was distracted from his thoughts by a warm weight shifting at his left side. Without noticing, he and Enjolras had drifted closer together on the ridiculous couch until they were close enough that their knees touched and every movement brushed them up against the other. Enjolras made no move to shift away, almost as if he hadn't noticed, so Grantaire didn’t bother either.

At one point Grantaire turned to ask him something and the words completely slipped from his mind as he found the young man already facing him, merely inches away. Enjolras’ eyes darted across his face, scrutinising, searching for something, and by the time he raised them again Grantaire’s mouth had gone dry. He swallowed, looking away before he did something to embarrass himself.

Thankfully, the conversation had continued flowing over the peculiar exchange, and as such it had gone unnoticed by the others. It became increasingly obvious to Grantaire that Enjolras was watching his every move, albeit surreptitiously; once he’d noticed, he just couldn’t stop.

Especially given that one of his favourite pastimes of late was sneaking glances at the beautiful man, and that became a lot harder to do when they kept catching each other’s eye.

 

***

 

The food arrived just as the score coverage began. The Avoxes arranged the heaped trays across the table in the television area, declining Valjean’s offer to join them. Which was entirely understandable; for one it could lose them their “job” (or worse), and for two it was difficult to eat without a tongue. Grantaire knew Cosette was still highly self-conscious about eating when anybody bar Marius was around.

He felt a sudden pang when he thought of the pair. Would they be watching this coverage right now? Would Bahorel? Would Feuilly or Eponine? Any other year, he knew they wouldn’t have. But this year…

Hades curled up in the middle of his palm, an uneasy coil; his phasing moons were sluggish, his vines wilting back.

Grantaire shook himself slightly. _Don’t think about it_. Enjolras gave him a curious look but didn’t question it, leaning forward and across Grantaire to pile things onto his plate. Jehan, Valjean and Helene were all doing the same, so Grantaire made an effort to join them despite all hunger having vanished from his body.

How easy had it become to forget what they were preparing for? Did he think at the end of this… What, he would go back to _Martyr Mods_ , Jehan to wherever he went that he apparently knew Bahorel from, and Enjolras and Helene would join Valjean on the train back to District 12?

Plate full, he sat back to find that Enjolras was intentionally leaning against him, a comforting presence all the way along his side from his knees to his shoulders. Grantaire was surprised by how simply comfortable he found it, being so close to the other man. He thanked him non-verbally by trying to steal food off his plate, despite them having the exact same foods, which resulted in a fork fight that was really quite immature even for them.

Somebody had switched the sound back on, and they continued talking over the scores from the other districts, occasionally commenting on which skills they thought each tribute had displayed for evaluation.

“Bladed weaponry,” Enjolras said of the District 2 tribute who’d been afforded an impressive 9, with a barely suppressed shudder. The distant look in his eyes told Grantaire that he had already been thinking about having to face up to these tributes in the arena, despite his calm demeanour.

“That’s my specialty too,” Grantaire said with much swagger, spearing a potato from Enjolras’ plate with his knife to demonstrate. It had the desired effect, as Enjolras’ eyes cleared and he frowned, pinching a piece of chicken from Grantaire’s plate in retaliation.

He could see Enjolras getting increasingly agitated by small amounts as the scores went on. It was quite a high scoring year, apparently, which wasn’t exactly a good sign for the tributes; it meant fierce competition. Every other score was an 8 or a 9, the girl from 4 getting an incredible 10 that had everyone hissing. Grantaire had a flashback to her maiming the training dummy the other day and subconsciously shifted closer to Enjolras.

Enjolras took a deep breath and shut his eyes for a moment, hands balled tightly into fists on his lap; it was finally starting to get to him. Jehan was regaling Valjean and Helene with a tale of a ridiculously wealthy woman who once commissioned an entire cat themed wardrobe for herself and her son, whilst trying to explain to Helene that _no, this was not a good thing, no I won’t design you a cat wardrobe._

While they were sufficiently distracted, Grantaire tapped on Enjolras’ right fist with his left pinkie. Enjolras opened his eyes and looked at him, a fleeting look of fear passing over his face, then glanced down to their hands. Grantaire laid his hand out flat, palm upwards, and waited. Gingerly, Enjolras uncurled his right hand, crescent shapes evident where his nails had dug into the flesh, and took Grantaire’s in his own, grip tight.

Grantaire gave him a reassuring squeeze as the scores for 11 were announced; another high pair. He ignored his own rapidly beating heart and focused on making sure Enjolras was okay. He was staring fixedly at the screen. Valjean increased the volume.

“...as you might remember from their dazzling firebird display on opening night, the tributes from District 12…” Grantaire was fairly sure Enjolras had stopped breathing.

“...starting with the male tribute, Enjolras, with a fiery rating of 10 for his performance this afternoon. I’m telling you, he’s the one to watch…”

Grantaire missed the rest of the sentence as he joined the other three in cheering for Enjolras, clapping his shoulder with a grin. “Hit a few targets, my ass! Go on, how many bullseyes did you sink?”

“One arrow, one axe, two knives; inner circles for all the rest.” The ghost of a delighted smile appeared on Enjolras’ lips; pride at scoring high marred by the reluctance to submit to anything about these Games. Grantaire could see it in his eyes, the shock he’d mentioned was beginning to wear off; the fear was kicking in. He was beginning to doubt everything, the arena was looming ever closer, and the fearless leader of District 12 was afraid to die.

“Hey,” Grantaire said softly, as the others watched the screen with bated breath for Helene’s score. Enjolras was chewing on the inside of his cheek. “It’s alright. Just breathe. You’re going to be okay. You’ll go into that arena, sure, but -- listen to me -- your friends won’t let anything happen to you. Or her.” Enjolras glanced sharply up at him. “And before you ask, no, I don’t know anything, haven’t heard anything; your secrets are safe. But I know you wouldn’t be in here without a plan, okay? And I’ve never met your friends, so I can’t vouch for their competence, but you believe in them, and I believe in you. So I know they’ll do what needs to be done, and they’ll get you out of there. You and the girl both.”

Enjolras didn’t say anything in reply. He swallowed hard and squeezed Grantaire’s hand, his thumb running soothingly across the back of his knuckles, and leaned ever so slightly harder into his side.

Grantaire joined in the cheer when Helene was awarded a whopping 8 points, shouting congratulations as Valjean hoisted her up onto his shoulders where she crowed delightedly, but he didn’t move from Enjolras’ side until they all retired later that evening.

 

***

 

Grantaire stood in his room, staring out of the window at the vast, endless sprawl of the city without seeing a single thing.

He couldn’t get his brain to stop whirring. Couldn’t stop thinking about him. _Four days_ , he reminded himself. _You’ve only known him four days. Stop. Stop._

You couldn’t grow this attached to a person in four days. Not a complete stranger. Not even a beautiful, reckless, courageous boy with a fiery spirit and eyes like a splintered glacier. Grantaire breathed in sharply.

_Yes, you can._

A noise at the door had him turning like a shot.

It was him. Enjolras. He was leaning against the door frame, face cast in shadow, expression unreadable.

"It's my birthday," he breathed as Grantaire's clock ticked past midnight.

"What?" Grantaire blinked. That was not what he’d been expecting.

"The other day I told you to buy me a drink and you said I was underage, as if that was the only thing stopping you. Well, now I'm not. That's what I was going to tell you before I changed my mind. I didn't know why then, but now..." he trailed off and gave Grantaire a significant look.

"You want me to buy you a drink?" Grantaire said faintly, mind whirring wildly.

"Only if you're going to tell me to strip again," Enjolras answered, stepping closer and letting the door fall shut behind him. "Or, we could just skip the drinks."

There was barely a foot between them now and Enjolras' eyes were burning into his with an intensity that made Grantaire's heart stutter.

"Enjolras," he reached out a hesitant hand, ghosted a touch across his cheek, dropped it again. He turned away, voice cracking. "I can't."

"Can't? Or won't?" Enjolras caught his hand, linked their fingers together and tugged Grantaire close. "Because let's face it, either way I'm likely going to die in the next two weeks. I've accepted that, and given the choice I'd rather have you for as long as possible, even if that only amounts to two days. Two nights."

"Tomorrow’s interviews, we couldn’t--” Grantaire shook his head, pressed their foreheads together, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. Moved on to what was really important. “I don't want to lose you."

Enjolras tilted his jaw up with his free hand so he was looking him in the eye. "Tough."

There was a heartbeat of silence and then all of Grantaire's resolve crumbled. He surged forward and kissed the taller man desperately, tangling one hand in his hair and grasping his shirt with the other. Enjolras gasped quietly into the kiss, slipping his hand under the back of Grantaire's shirt and pulling him closer by his lower back.

He nudged Enjolras backwards, steering him towards the bed without once breaking the kiss. The backs of Enjolras' calves hit the edge and he sank to the mattress gracefully, pulling Grantaire with him so that he was straddling his lap, knees bracketing Enjolras' hips.

Grantaire licked into his mouth dirtily, relishing in the little broken sounds of pleasure he was receiving from the other man. A stab of hurt went through him when it occurred to him that this was probably the first time anyone had ever touched him like this; a thought that was all but confirmed when he ground his hips into Enjolras' and the man let out a choked whine, like he couldn't believe what he was feeling. He shoved the thoughts away, determined that tonight was going to be about nothing but making Enjolras feel good. He raised himself off Enjolras' lap and pushed at him, encouraging him wordlessly to move further up the bed. He complied, watching Grantaire hungrily with huge eyes and swollen lips, and Grantaire followed, removing his shirt as he went.

He returned to kissing Enjolras feverishly, pressing him down into the mattress and swiftly unbuttoning his shirt. Enjolras lifted himself so Grantaire could free his arms and then they were chest to chest pressed down onto the bed. Grantaire dropped feather light kisses onto bruises left from training and Enjolras busied himself with tracing Grantaire's constantly writhing tattoos with his tongue and teeth.

“I’ve been wanting to do that since day one,” Enjolras murmured, dipping his head and pressing an open mouthed kiss to the moth below his collarbone. Its wings fluttered frantically when Grantaire groaned. On his wrist, the moon was phasing so fast it resembled a globe being spun at full speed, and Hades was twisting and turning as if possessed.

Reluctantly Grantaire pulled back to sit upright, straddling Enjolras’ hips and trying to clear his head. He pushed Enjolras down with one hand when he pushed up on his elbows and tried to follow him and kept him there, fingers splayed.

“Wait,” he said, breathing heavily. Enjolras tossed a strand of hair from his eyes and stared up at him, mouth red and cheeks flushed and pupils round. Waiting obediently. That must have been a first.

He didn’t even bother to lower his voice any further. “These rooms are bugged, potentially more than that. Are you sure you want to do this?” _Are you sure you want to fuck me, an all but complete stranger from the shady side of the Capitol, to have your first time recorded and broadcast to anyone who has the right contacts and is willing to pay the right price? Is it worth it? Am_ I _worth it?_

Enjolras laughed bitterly, and it was a broken sound. He shook his head then took the hand Grantaire was holding him down with and pulled him close with it, kissing him softly when he came close enough. “They’re going to televise my death in gritty detail. I’ve been under constant surveillance with varying degrees of success for the last two years at the very least,” Grantaire’s heart fell at the thought of 16 year old Enjolras, already capable of such rampant destruction that he was on threat watch. Did he ever have a childhood? “What’s a couple of nights of debauchery when they already have every moment of intimacy and vulnerability that I’ve ever lived?”

The last words were whispered so close that Enjolras’ lips brushed Grantaire’s with every syllable, sending a shiver down his spine. The rawness of his voice had Grantaire closing his eyes to ward off tears even as he pressed closer to kiss him again, one hand reaching up to tenderly graze his cheek while the other slid down between them, making quick work of Enjolras’ belt buckle and his own. The rest of their clothing was divested with relative ease and then they were just friction and skin, burning hot and capturing each other’s mouths with thoughtless fervour.

“Tell me,” Grantaire commanded breathlessly, resting in the cradle of Enjolras’ thighs and rutting relentlessly against him, Enjolras giving soft little sobs at every drag of Grantaire’s cock against his. “What do you want?”

Enjolras, unable to answer, spread his legs further and lifted his hips off the bed to push up against Grantaire’s. He whimpered and Grantaire bit back a groan at the sensation from the unexpected change in pace, his hips stuttering. Enjolras pulled him down for a bruising kiss, fingers digging into the back of his head just the right side of too hard.

“Enjolras-” Grantaire began, voice hoarse.

“Fuck me,” Enjolras pleaded. No, not pleaded, Enjolras didn’t plead. He didn’t ask for anything, didn’t waver, didn’t lose sight of his goals. He demanded.

And Grantaire complied.

There was a brief snag regarding condoms, of which there were none, overcome when Enjolras reminded Grantaire that A: they’d literally just had their blood checked on entering the training facility, and B: he was about to die anyway. Grantaire kissed him to shut him up and went to work on prepping him thoroughly with the lube he thankfully had plenty of.

By the time he was knuckle deep and two fingers in, Enjolras was already coming apart at the seams. With every stroke of Grantaire’s fingers his breath was hitching, he was whimpering, biting at his lip so he wouldn’t cry out. The initial painful burn had faded out with surprising ease and Enjolras was constantly pushing back, not so silently searching for more, trying to fuck himself on Grantaire’s fingers.

“Grantaire, please, now, just-” Enjolras gasped and tightened his viselike grip on Grantaire’s hair.

“One more,” Grantaire promised, pressing a kiss to his hip. “Just one more.” He pulled out, Enjolras whining at the loss, and liberally coated his third finger in lube. Then he was pushing back in again, gently lapping at Enjolras’ cock to counteract any discomfort all the while pressing the heel of his free hand against his own dick in an attempt to stave off his release.

“Almost there,” Grantaire said through gritted teeth, and after a few more excruciating minutes he was lining himself up against Enjolras’ ass, ready to push in. “Now?”

 _“Now,”_ Enjolras moaned, almost half-mad with longing, his erection flush against his navel where a pool of precum was collected. Grantaire pressed in slowly with a shuddering breath, desperate to move but even more desperate for Enjolras to be comfortable, almost dizzy from all the overwhelming sensation. Enjolras’ hips arched off the bed and Grantaire clamped his hands on them hard to stop him from hurting himself.

Grantaire stilled at last, and in the agonising moments that followed he dropped a kiss to Enjolras’ forehead. Enjolras’ lip began to bleed from having bitten it so hard.

“Move, _move,”_ Grantaire didn’t actually need to be told twice. He pulled out a little then pushed back in again, creating a rhythm of shallow thrusts that had Enjolras gasping. He swallowed the gasps with a kiss hard enough to bruise, letting out one of his own when Enjolras’ fingernails bit into his shoulders. Enjolras threw back his head and his eyes rolled shut, Grantaire took the opportunity to nip and suck a possessive mark into his neck, all care long gone. Neither of them were going to last long.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras said suddenly, breathlessly, his eyes flying open again and finding his. Grantaire knew, he could feel all the muscles in Enjolras’ body tensing in time, preparing to throw him over the edge. He was helpless to do anything but pull Grantaire in impossibly closer as he sped up his thrusts and finally took his cock in hand. Five or six strokes was all it took before Enjolras’s orgasm took him and he came in long strips over Grantaire’s hand and up their stomachs, crying out as he did so. Grantaire lost all rhythm after Enjolras clenched around him and desperately pushed towards his own release, finding it and spilling a mantra of Enjolras’ name from his mouth as he did so.

When he came down he was still miraculously braced over Enjolras, the blonde man watching him with an awestruck yet entirely blissed out expression. He pulled out slowly, Enjolras shivering at the overstimulation; took an old shirt from the floor to clean them off -- he just didn’t care any more -- then pulled him close into a deep, almost explorative kiss. In a moment his arm gave out and they repositioned themselves, pulling the sheets up to waist height and tangling their legs together, Grantaire on his back and Enjolras lying half across his chest, drawing lazy patterns across his chest with a finger.

“Happy birthday,” Grantaire murmured, nuzzling into Enjolras’ hair to press a kiss to the top of his head. Enjolras huffed a soft laugh and kissed him on the shoulder in lieu of a reply, and it was that way they drifted together towards sleep.

 

***

 

“Grantaire?” he heard the whisper, seconds, minutes, hours later, but was too close to the edge of sleep to answer, barely conscious. Enjolras sighed and raised Grantaire’s hand to his mouth, kissing his knuckles gently.

After a moment he spoke again, so quietly that Grantaire ought to have missed it. “I don’t know what it’s like to love,” he began, and in that moment he sounded so young, so vulnerable, and yet all Grantaire wanted to do was stop him from continuing that thought. But he couldn’t. He was too far into exhaustion, and his hearing was the last fleeting sense to leave him.

“But I think I would have come to love you.”

With that, Enjolras curled himself tight against Grantaire and spoke no more, and Grantaire lost his battle with consciousness.

He would awake the next morning forgetful, not knowing why his heart beat so heavy in his chest.

 

 


	3. For Centuries

 

**Day 5**

 

Grantaire stirred. His eyes still shut, he was aware of nothing but the warm man draped over his front, close to his chest. He smiled before he opened his eyes, felt Enjolras’ soft hair brush his cheek as he did so.

He spent a moment just watching him sleep, far more at peace now than he’d ever seen him awake. A glance at his alarm clock over his shoulder had him pulling away slightly, and Enjolras pulled him closer again with a disgruntled murmur and a frown. Grantaire grinned.

The display read a much later hour than their usual waking time, but on interview day they didn’t have to be anywhere in particular until late afternoon. The tributes would be coached for their interviews for most of the afternoon, which Grantaire and Jehan would only be present for in part as they would be needed for costuming, given that they’d been neglecting their duties in favour of training for most of the week.

He sighed and kissed Enjolras on the forehead as he began to feel him waking up. He made a sweet little humming sound as he came to, tilting his head so he could regard Grantaire with sleepy eyes.

“Afternoon,” Grantaire smiled down at him. Enjolras’ eyes widened in alarm and Grantaire laughed, bumping their foreheads together gently. “I’m kidding, it’s only 10. Don’t worry, you aren’t late for anything. Though we should probably get up soon.”

Enjolras grumbled and kissed Grantaire softly, somehow managing to do so in a petulant manner. Grantaire twirled a lock of Enjolras’ hair around his finger like he had done the previous night and Enjolras smiled, going crosseyed to watch. He caught Grantaire’s wrist and kissed his tattoo, smiling wider when the flickering image moved even faster.

“So that’s what that means,” he said, almost to himself.

Grantaire blushed. “I told you, they function according to blood flow, adrenaline, that sort of thing.” He untangled himself from Enjolras to stretch, stifling a laugh when Enjolras trailed an appreciative finger down his chest. “Behave yourself. Come on, we should get dressed. I’m going to shower.”

Enjolras quirked an eyebrow as Grantaire got to his feet, face half hidden by the bedsheets. “May I join you?”

Grantaire laughed. “I highly doubt that your room came without a shower.” Enjolras fluttered his eyelashes at him and he laughed. “You’re completely ridiculous. Fine, let’s go.”

Nobody even so much as batted an eyelid when they emerged from the same room half an hour later.

They slid into the two unoccupied seats at the table, conveniently beside each other, and Grantaire piled his plate high with toast without a second thought. He angled his body so that he could press surreptitiously against Enjolras’ side and still see the rest of the table.

“You think you two can bear to be parted for long enough for us to get the costumes ready for tonight, Grantaire?” was Jehan’s first remark, spoken with a smirk. Grantaire blushed and at his side, Enjolras looked incredibly pleased with himself. Helene giggled and Valjean suppressed a smile.

“I’m sure we can manage,” Grantaire said with a smile.

When they’d eaten, Grantaire and Jehan headed straight for the elevator. Just as the doors opened and they were about to step on, Enjolras appeared beside Grantaire.

Jehan merely raised his eyebrows and said, “Combeferre will want words with you. Both of you,” before stepping into the elevator to wait for Grantaire. Grantaire turned to Enjolras to ask what that was about, but before he could Enjolras had grabbed him by the shirt and dragged him forward for a kiss.

“I’m just going to keep doing that while I still can,” Enjolras whispered, kissing him again, softly this time. He gave Grantaire a sad smile before retreating back to where Valjean was discussing  potential interview questions with Helene; the girl was surprisingly eloquent. Grantaire was certain he’d underestimated her now.

Most of the elevator ride was silent. Then Grantaire spoke up, quietly.

“You seem fairly confident that both Enjolras and I will live to see this Combeferre character,” he mused.

Jehan bared his teeth in a loose approximation of a grin, but his eyes blazed with defiance. “Call me an optimist.”

His confidence, sadly, did nothing to calm Grantaire’s worry.

They would just have to wait and see.

 

***

 

“What is it with you and mythical beings?” Enjolras asked, an amused twist to his lips. He held his costume in his hands, running his thumbs back and forth over the silky material.

Grantaire shrugged, obviously pleased with Enjolras’ reaction. “I’m a sucker for mythology, what can I say? I named my tattoo Hades, man. You should have expected this.”

Jehan leaned in the door for a moment with a grin. “Yeah, he’s got a thing for fiery, legendary hot things… Ring any bells?” He left with a wink at Enjolras, and Grantaire laughed.

“I’m not legendary,” Enjolras countered, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “Hot, sure, but legendary?”

“Mm, and humble, too. Don’t forget humble,” Grantaire replied with a smile, motioning for Enjolras to start getting dressed. He handed the outfit back to Grantaire, stripping out of his shirt with ease and beginning to work on loosening his jeans, Grantaire watching absentmindedly. “But I agree, actually. You’re already mythical in your own right; half the capitol didn’t even believe you existed until you volunteered. As for legendary… I guess whatever happens in the next few days will see to that.”

Enjolras straightened from stepping out of his jeans and gave him a level look that gave nothing away, but Grantaire got the feeling that he was in agreement nevertheless. He wordlessly held out his hand and Grantaire handed him first the suit pants, then his shirt and jacket to put on.

The shirt was a plain pure black button-down, the kind of black that seems to absorb all light and reflect nothing. The jacket and pants, however, were made of a glossy black material, slightly harder than leather; the material was pieced together in the shape of scales, and at the topmost tip of each scale glowed a warm gradient of flickering colour, like flame nestled in coals. The lowest scales were darkest, where his pant legs met his boots, barely glowing at all, whereas the scales at his shoulders shone almost as bright as the phoenix costume of the opening ceremony.  

Last of all, Grantaire stepped forward to wrap the tie around his neck. It was the same material as the previous costume; glowing and shining so fiercely that you would almost expect it to emit heat and a crackling sound, the light rippling and reflecting off the scales of the jacket. Grantaire efficiently knotted the tie and smoothed it down his shirt, backs of his knuckles just brushing Enjolras’ chest. He leaned into the touch.

Grantaire braced his palms on his chest and stepped back to take a better look at him. The beauticians had already scrubbed him down and teased his hair into being the flowing waves of gold that shone like a halo in the right light.

He shook his head. “Have you any idea what you look like right now?” Enjolras didn’t answer, just watched him with his piercing eyes. “I can’t decide if you’re a knight of heaven or hell.”

Enjolras’ mouth twitched. “Depends which side you’re on, I guess.”

“Whichever one you’re on,” Grantaire answered in a heartbeat. Enjolras stepped forward to close the gap between them, but he was interrupted as Valjean came in to tell them they had to make their way backstage.

“Sorry,” he said, not really sounding it at all. “But we had better go.” With him came Enjolras’ guard, and he took the customary grip with one hand at the back of Enjolras’ neck and the other gripping his arm.

“Watch the suit,” Enjolras said in a disinterested tone, flicking his hair out of the way and shooting the guard a withering note. Grantaire had to hold back a snort; it was now odd seeing Enjolras with the aloof, cold personality that he presented to the government officials and other tributes.

It was a very different Enjolras to the one Grantaire had come to know.

Once backstage, there was nothing to do but wait.

They’d actively avoided seeking alliances with the other tributes; the risk of the capitol bribing, aiding, or otherwise persuading another tribute to take Enjolras out with promises of an easier Games wasn’t worth it. As such, the rest of the tributes were begrudgingly polite towards Enjolras and Helene, but for the most part the two stuck to speaking with their own team of advisors.

Helene’s outfit was a dress with a band of glittery coal black around the midriff, from which spread a sunset gradient of red, orange and yellow. She was like a candle flame, soft and gentle and pure beside Enjolras’ dark volcanic force.

If her own team had underestimated her, Jehan was doing his utmost to make sure that the rest of the tributes did the same, so that she wouldn’t be targeted for as long as possible. She was to be sweet, cute, adorable, and had been coached by Valjean to coax as many coos and chuckles from the audience as possible.

Enjolras, on the other hand, was a different matter entirely. It was no secret to many in the capitol that he was no fan of them or their Games. He could be disarmingly charming, sure, but keeping his temper in check for long enough to do so proved difficult at the best of times.

“Not quite as flashy as the opening ceremony, huh?” Enjolras asked, twisting in front of a full length mirror while the first District 1 tribute got their two minute warning over the speaker system.

Making sure nobody was paying too close attention first, Grantaire hooked his chin over Enjolras’ shoulder and smiled at his reflection, reaching around his chest to straighten Enjolras’ already-immaculate tie. Enjolras leaned back into him with a smile.

“Your personality is more than flashy enough,” Grantaire smirked, kissing him on the cheek quickly before withdrawing. “And at any rate, this look is more… Classy.”

“And yet, it’s dragon-themed.”

“You be quiet, dragons are classy,” Grantaire paused. “What angle are you going for in your interview, anyway?”

“Now, how was it Valjean put it… Valjean!” Enjolras called over his shoulder. The mentor turned from where he was talking to a designer from District 10, raising his eyebrows in a questioning manner. “What’s my angle?”

Valjean bit back a laugh. “I believe we settled for ‘not biting anybody’s head off and/or cursing any and all of their descendents’.”

Enjolras grinned. “That was the one.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Grantaire shook his head.

“Grantaire,” Jehan glided over in a few long strides. “We’ve to go take our seats now, only mentors are allowed to stay backstage.”

“Right,” Grantaire’s eyes met Enjolras’ and he nodded, turning to go join Helene and Valjean near the waiting area just behind the stage.

“Let’s go, then,” Jehan said with a smile. He was wrought with worry over the tributes, every bit as much as Grantaire, but at the same time his and Grantaire’s work had been showered with compliments by the other designers, so he couldn’t help but be pleased despite himself.

 

***

 

They were ushered to their seats quickly despite the immense size of the amphitheatre in which the interviews were to take place. The seats were impressively close to the stage, and seated all around them were the types of people Grantaire did his utmost to avoid in his life.

He reasoned now that it wasn’t their fault; that they’d been spoon fed and brainwashed lies and corruption and falsehoods from the day they’d been born and well before then. If it made them happy to dress garishly and modify their bodies and run with the stream, then who was he to begrudge them? Especially as most of them were entirely oblivious to just how much others suffered so they could have what they did, the cost of their luxuries.

Of course, many did know, and simply didn’t care. Those people, Grantaire felt he could loathe freely. It was telling them apart from the airheads that was the difficult part.

He and Jehan sat through the interviews with barely concealed disinterest. They began whispering immature commentary to each other halfway through the female from 3’s interview and just never stopped, really.

“Are they actually _falling_ for this?” Jehan hissed, looking around him incredulously. The girl from 4, the one with the lethal spear skills who’d utterly decimated half the mannequins and targets in the training facility, was choking out sobs as she regaled them all with stories of her family who she loved so tenderly, delicately (and cunningly) flicking tears away from her eyes so her mascara would not run.

Grantaire had snuck a glance at her file when her mentor had left it open on the table in the viewing room the other day. She was certified amoral psychopath with literally zero empathy or remorse whatsoever. She was playing the crowd with skill, and they were eating it right up.

“Incredible,” he breathed, shaking his head as the woman to his right started blowing her nose noisily into an embroidered handkerchief.

After what felt like weeks of waiting through _obviously_ scripted answers and multiple manipulations of the audience, the host ‒ a man with gold plated skin who Grantaire had always thought gave the distinct impression that he wasn’t entirely comfortable with any of the proceedings ‒ finally announced the first tribute from District 12.

The roar that went up when Enjolras glided onstage was, Grantaire thought, more enthusiastic than it had been for any of the other tributes. He couldn’t help but cast a glance at the presidential box, smirking with satisfaction at the irony of the situation and imagining the pure irritation Felix must have been experiencing as his nemesis gained more and more popularity.

When Grantaire turned in his seat again, the breath was knocked out of him at the sight of Enjolras’ face magnified on the huge screen suspended above the stage. He was smiling and waving courteously at the crowd, and he was absolutely stunning, the little flickers of flame making him look like he was constantly in motion.

“...your friend ‒ Combeferre, was it?” the gold man ‒ his name was literally Goldman, Grantaire suddenly remembered ‒ was asking him. “How long have you known each other?”

Grantaire bit the inside of his cheek. Of course they would want to know about the man he’d voluntarily taken the place of. He tried to gauge the emotion on Enjolras’ face, but it was a perfect mask, smiling politely.

“Longer than I can say, really. His mother used to take care of me when mine was at work. After they put up with me for so long, I figured volunteering was the least I could do to repay them,” he said with a self-deprecating smile. The audience laughed, and Grantaire eased the viselike grip he’d had on the arms of his chair. He had this covered.

“Come now, you can’t be that difficult to handle?” Goldman bared his teeth in a wide ‒ golden ‒ grin.

“Believe me, you don’t know the half of it,” Enjolras teased with a wink.

“Alright, alright then. Now while we’re on the topic of handling you, I am morally obligated to ask on behalf of all the ladies out there; _is_ there anybody handling you?” Goldman said, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

The audience laughed again, and there were whistles and catcalls from the audience. Grantaire’s breath caught in his throat and Jehan surreptitiously took his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

Onstage, Enjolras was blushing. He took a drink from the glass of water on the table beside his couch and looked at Goldman for a moment, then out across the audience. “Uh,” Enjolras hesitated then grinned sheepishly. “I’m afraid I don’t kiss and tell, Monsieur Goldman,” he said smoothly.

“So we can take that as a ‘yes’, then,” Goldman pressed, to the mixed boos and cheering of the collective crowd. “Excellent.”

“Yes,” Enjolras said after a moment, gaze drifting across the crowd again, as though searching for something. All of a sudden his eyes alighted on the section where Grantaire and Jehan were seated and he grinned, breathtakingly beautiful. “Excellent _is_ the word I would use.”

Grantaire felt himself blushing and his blood roared in his ears, blotting out the next few moments of conversation between Enjolras and Goldman. At his side, Jehan was snickering. Grantaire punched him in the side and tried to cool down. “At least he didn’t publicly out you,” Jehan whispered with a smirk.

“Shut up,” Grantaire hissed in reply. His attention was drawn back to the stage when he heard Jehan’s name, and his eyes snapped to Enjolras when his own name was mentioned.

“Jehan and Grantaire, our designers,” he was saying. “The work they do is magic ‒ I mean, look at this!” he gestured at his suit, and the catcalls this time were almost deafening. “Oh, behave,” he rolled his eyes at the crowd, and Goldman laughed wholeheartedly. “What else have I enjoyed in this city… Oh, yeah, the showers are great.” He grinned as the crowd went wild.

“I see what you mean, you are a handful,” Goldman replied, wiping tears from his eyes as the crowd died down. “Well, we should probably wind this down, we’re coming to the end of our timeslot,” he paused to wait for the crowd to stop booing. “All that’s really left to ask, I suppose, is… Do you think you can win this?”

A sudden hush fell over the audience as Enjolras pondered his answer.

“Yes,” he said, and his voice was strong, as it had been that first day in the dressing room when he had told Grantaire all about District 12. “I believe that if people‒ if there is something to believe in, if you fight and don’t give up and give every little bit of yourself… If you dedicate yourself entirely to a cause, you can triumph. No matter what the competition, whether you’re outnumbered or underprepared or less trained than your enemies… What can possibly go wrong?”

His grin was easy, but the defiance in his eyes was evident to all who were expecting it. “Enjolras,” Grantaire breathed, a warning that wouldn’t reach his ears.

The audience erupted into an explosion of sound as he stood and shook Goldman’s hand and stalked offstage, waving and blowing kisses as he went.

Grantaire could barely keep himself in his seat for Helene’s interview. As planned, she reaped a great deal of heartfelt “awww”s and whispered comments of “she’s so precious” and “such a shame” from the audience.

But nothing stuck in his mind.

As soon as Helene shook Goldman’s hand with an expression of fierce determination that gleaned another chorus of cooing from the the crowd and skipped offstage, he was out of his seat, and he was halfway to the backstage area before the house lights were even up, Jehan close behind him.

 

***

 

“Did you intend to rely so heavily on your ability as a sex symbol during your interview, or did that just come naturally to you?”

“Jehan,” said Enjolras, leaning heavily against Grantaire with his arms wrapped around him in the elevator on the way back up to their floor. “Shut up.”

Grantaire rested his forehead against Enjolras’ temple and kissed his cheek. “I have it on good authority that it just comes naturally to him,” he murmured with a wan smile.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Helene whined from the opposite corner. “I did not need to hear that.”

Jehan and Valjean burst out laughing, Enjolras blushed, and Grantaire apologised.

But he didn’t really mean it.

 

***

 

"Bahorel," he said across the silence of the call line, one that was fraught with palpable tension and grief. Bahorel’s pity flooded through with every word he spoke. Not that there was anything to say, really, but both of them knew Grantaire was comforted by his friend’s presence on the other end of the line, and Bahorel wasn’t going to begrudge him that.

"Yeah?"

Grantaire swallowed, collecting himself. He thought about Enjolras, about Valjean and Jehan, about how certain they were that they could triumph. The spark of confidence that flared up in their shared meaningful glances and the look on Jehan’s face when he appeared back from wherever it was he communicated with the Districts. They believed in themselves, in the people, that good would out.

Maybe it was just because he wasn’t in on their plans, but try as he might Grantaire couldn’t see any of them coming out of this alive. He wanted to believe they could win.

"Back in the years of war, and the wars before Panem, the wars back before the history books begin teaching and the world still seemed free... The sides who were helplessly outnumbered and doomed to fail, the good men who fought for the sake of justice and hope and love only to be inevitably crushed... Did they ever really think they stood a chance of winning?"

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Grantaire heard Bahorel sigh.

"Of course they did, Grantaire. Why else would they have kept fighting?"

Grantaire had no reply for that.

 

***

 

When Enjolras appeared at his doorway that night, Grantaire beckoned him forward wordlessly and the young man fell gratefully into his arms, curling into the embrace offered as the two pressed together on the bed, nose to nose, legs tangled together. Grantaire pulled him close and kissed him gently, his arms winding tight around Enjolras’ shoulders.

When he squeezed his eyes shut and began to shudder ever so slightly, Grantaire curled up around him in such a way that no cameras anywhere in the room could possibly see. He let him have his moment of vulnerability as their time together began to slip away, one second at a time, and kissed away his tears when he could.

He would keep him safe for as long as he could.

After all, who knew what tomorrow would bring?

 

**Day 6**

 

The morning was a solemn affair. It was the worst day of Grantaire’s life, and that was saying something. He woke far too early, tightly curled around Enjolras, arms encircling his waist and nose buried in the nape of his neck. It was as if he was trying to protect him while they slept. The idea was almost laughable.

Enjolras woke soon after. He turned to face Grantaire, who watched as the date dawned on him and his face hardened. He rolled on top of him and kissed him viciously and this time when they fucked it was with none of the gentleness from the night before last. They were showered before the alarm rang out and headed into the living room to wait for the others.

All this they did without saying a word.

Jehan and Valjean kept Helene distracted and as calm as possible given the situation, which Grantaire would find time to be thankful for later. Enjolras leaned into him and he slipped his arms around the now familiar body.

He kissed him when nobody was looking. He kissed him before they got into the elevator and began their final descent. He kissed him in the darkened back seat of the car that drove them to god knows where, and in the subsequent hovercraft journey. When he changed into his arena gear, Grantaire didn’t even bother to avert his eyes.

He said his goodbyes to Helene and hugged the little girl. Said words that felt hollow in both his mouth and his heart. Enjolras hugged her too, and Jehan hugged him, and Valjean clapped him on the shoulder. Enjolras stared fiercely at Jehan, shooting a glance at Grantaire. Jehan followed his gaze and after a moment nodded minutely, which relieved the smallest amount of tension in Enjolras’ shoulders. And then Jehan and Valjean took one of Helene’s hand each and led her to her separate room.

Remotely, a part of Grantaire realised that Enjolras had just ordered the men to take care of him. And Jehan had agreed.

When the others had filed out of the room Grantaire simply pressed his forehead against Enjolras’, wrapped his arms around him and waited. He tried to memorise the feeling of the warm body pressed against his, the scent of him curled up at his side, the ache in his heart that was too good to really be bad, except for when it wasn’t.

He opened his eyes and Enjolras was watching him, expressionless. His eyes were rimmed red but he wouldn’t cry, Grantaire doubted he even knew how to. Not for himself. Enjolras wouldn’t cry for Enjolras. He would give up his life to save Combeferre’s, sacrifice himself so the revolution could flourish, but when it all came down to it Enjolras was selfishly selfless.

He wondered, briefly, how many would weep when the boy with the fire in his heart fell. He didn’t know. But what he did know was that he would be one of them.

There weren’t any grand speeches and tearful goodbyes. This wasn’t an ancient fucking love story where the damsel spurred on the courage of the brave hero and he won against all odds with the power of _romance._ Because real life just wasn’t fucking like that. Real life wasn’t kind.

Felix had hoped to prove that to him, to Jehan. Tried to beat them down and force them to give up. Well, Grantaire didn’t know about Jehan, but he knew all that Felix had proven to him was that he had nothing left to lose.

And he would make him pay for what he had already lost.

This time it was Enjolras who initiated the kiss. It was desperate and messy and sweet and painful and it felt like Grantaire was having his heart ripped out of his chest. They parted only to wrap their arms around each other again.

“This isn’t the end,” Enjolras’ voice was remarkably composed.

They remained in this embrace until the warning buzzer sounded.

“All tributes to entrance positions. Countdown will begin shortly.”

Enjolras took his place on the platform, and Grantaire went with him. They held each other by the shoulders, trying to communicate a lifetime of words through simple looks in the briefest of heartbeats, an endeavour that could only ever be in vain.

Grantaire kissed him one last time and stumbled backwards, barely avoiding getting knocked down by the glass cylinder that was lowered to the floor, surrounding Enjolras.

The countdown began.

Grantaire barely heard it. He stepped forward again and put his palm to the cold glass. On the other side, Enjolras did the same. The ghost of a touch. With his warmth gone it was as though he was already lost to him.

The countdown reached the home stretch. The machinery around them started to buzz in readiness. Enjolras tried to say something, but no sound came through the glass.

“What?” Grantaire shook his head desperately, searching his face, still trying to commit the beautiful boy from District 12 to memory. Because no pictures did him justice, not like this.

Enjolras hesitated. Stepped back into the centre of the cylinder, and stretched his arms wide, dipped down and a little behind him, chin raised high and proud, and when he raised his eyes to meet Grantaire’s again they were burning with the intensity of a thousand furnaces.

 _Rise,_ he was saying. _We will rise from the ashes._ Grantaire’s phoenix, his beacon of hope, was telling him not to give up just yet.

_Rise._

The platform jolted and began to lift Enjolras upwards, towards the arena. He dropped his stance in surprise at the sudden movement. Grantaire began to hit against the glass, an entirely futile gesture that only served to bruise his hands. Enjolras watched him all the while, a storm brewing behind his eyes.

At the last moment his composure broke and he shouted something, something that couldn’t make it through the glass. He dropped to his knees to maintain eye contact for seconds longer, but it wasn’t long enough. It would never have been long enough.

And then Grantaire was alone, those last unspoken words ringing in his ears.

_Rise from the ashes._

_This isn’t the end._

  
  
**We will rise.**

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Excuse me while I continuously rearrange my Notes on this.)
> 
> 1\. This was a labour of lovehate that fueled an exasperating amount of self-resentment on my part. The working title was "not a fucking love story" because, well. The Hunger Games isn't about the love story, and yet LOOK WHAT I DID!  
> 2\. That aside, I am proud of this. I originally intended it to be a couple of thousand words to post as a drabble on Tumblr as I was watching THG. (ALSO: If you want to imagine Grantaire as Lenny Kravitz that is something I am totally down with. Hot damn.)  
> 3\. If you've read More Important Things you'll notice I've a thing for phoenixes. Don't ask.  
> 4\. If things go right, this will have a sequel that has the same kind of theme as Mockingjay, which would clear up a lot of backstory and strange questions you might have from this...  
> 5\. Not really relevant, but as well as watching both HG movies at the start of writing this, I was also reading a book called 'Pure' by Julianna Baggott. It is without a doubt the best, most creepy and chilling, and honestly realistic dystopian novel I've ever read, and I think reading it is what helped me set the mood for this whole fic. (Also I was listening to Bastille's deluxe Bad Blood album and Ed Sheeran's song 'Afire Love' and they're fabulous to listen to both while reading Pure and writing this. #thingsyoudidntreallyneedtoknow)  
> 6\. EDIT (13/3/2016): [MY FRIEND MADE A MIX FOR THIS FIC](http://alexhamiltcn.tumblr.com/post/139866103383) PLEASE GO LISTEN TO IT IT'S A+++
> 
> I sincerely hope you guys enjoyed reading.
> 
> On tumblr I am [cityelf](http://cityelf.tumblr.com)!
> 
> ♥ THANK YOU FOR READING ! ♥


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